Let Sleeping Dogs Lie
by Beguile
Summary: While recovering from a horrific car accident, Mutt is haunted by the form of his late stepfather Colin Williams. His investigation into the events surrounding his father’s demise leads him to discover the dark truths about Nazism and the nature of evil.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Stephen Spielberg, George Lucas, and their marvelous affiliates at Lucasfilm and Paramount. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: While recovering from a horrific car accident, Mutt is haunted by the form of his late stepfather Colin Williams. His investigation into the events surrounding his father's demise leads him to discover the dark truth about Colin's time overseas and even darker truths about the Nazis and the nature of evil.

Themes: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Adventure

Rating: T for language, violence, and disturbing situations.

Timeline: Five months post-KotCS.

Author's Notes: This is the byproduct of my obsession with Mutt and his step-father, Colin Williams. It's considerably darker than the films and probably the darkest concepts I have ever played with. I was inspired heavily by Tanya Huff's _Blood Pact_ and Mike Mignola's _Hellboy_, which may give you a hint as to the storyline, but not too much of one. Basically, I wanted to explore the relationship between Mutt and Colin, while also bringing the Nazis back as a villain.

I have used some female original characters in this. The relationships they form with Mutt are strictly for the sake of the story and will not take centre stage, just in case anyone's worried.

"Get bent" is the 50's equivalent of 'screw off'...or so I read. If this is incorrect, I would like to know.

Other than that, constructive criticism is always appreciated, flames are always ignored. Enjoy, readers!

* * *

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Chapter One

There were many reasons Henry "Mutt" Jones Jr. hated Susan Walsh, and everyday she took the liberty of giving him new ones. That day in class, though, she had given him several lists worth, lists he reflected upon as he crossed Bishop's Square to the bus stop home.

The story of Susan had been the talk of the school two months before when she appeared on campus. It had the makings of an epic: the daughter of a wealthy Englishman and his dowdy wife sent adrift in the wake of her mother's remarriage. Mrs. Walsh had lost her husband during the war and had raised her daughter alone for many years. However, during Susan's first year at Cambridge, Mrs. Walsh quickly became the apple of the esteemed Physic professor, Dr. Albert Montague's eye who, as luck would have it, had recently been promoted at Marshall College to the position of Faculty head. Unable to leave his job, he invited the former Mrs. Walsh to live with him in America and, being unable to leave her daughter, Susan was dragged along and transferred to Marshall.

If there was any disdain in the decision, no one could be sure. Susan kept very few contacts at the school and spoke very little. Her sharp, clipped tones were often attributed to her British upbringing and her character rather than relocation resentments. Neither justification made her any more bearable, though. She was known to be a fierce debater when provoked, a verbal serpent with an abrasive wit and Socratic proficiency. When she spoke, people listened; when she attacked, people bled. Since day one, she had delighted in knocking her classmates down several pegs. It was, in part, because she had the highest mark in the class. Mostly, though, Mutt figured she was just a bitch.

Needless to say, her relationship with the young Jones had been strained from the beginning and fluctuated accordingly. On a good day, neither recognized the others' existence, but on a bad one, everybody took notice. Neither was known to take anything lying down, though Susan was certainly adept at pretending she did. They turned class discussion into world wars, Axis versus Allies, America versus Russia, departing only after the professor had forced them from the battlefield…er, lecture hall.

Today had been no different. One comment from Anthony Verdigris sent Susan on the stealthiest warpath she had ever been on. She made open ended statements seemingly in Anthony's favour, convincing the class that she supported the youth's assessment. The façade did not last long, though. In her throaty, clipped tone, she began to twist his statements, showing in subtle but blatant ways how he had undermined his point. Finally, just when he thought he was getting off easy, she posed a final rhetorical question that sealed her verbal victory and secured her dominance in the class.

No sooner had class ended Mutt marched to the back corner of the class where Susan always sat. Anthony was a good student and a good friend. She could pick on everyone else, take on the President if she wanted, but he wouldn't stand for her tearing his friends down.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" he snapped.

Susan lifted her gaze casually from her bag where she was packing up her notes. Her dark brown eyes appeared almost black in the harsh lighting of the hall. Her blank expression was even more disturbing, not because it was void of emotion, but because Mutt could feel her smirking under it all, entertained, ready for battle. She turned from what she was doing gracefully, like a debutante and waited for an explanation, silent and inert as a jungle cat whose meal had just been interrupted.

Anthony patted his friend on the shoulder. "Mutt, come on – she's not worth it."

"No, please," she insisted cordially. "A Neanderthal with a vocabulary? Mr. Jones is making evolutionary history. I'm honoured to be present for this."

"Spare me the polysyllabic bitchery," Mutt's hands balled to fists. "He had a legitimate argument and you know it."

"So legitimate means wholly wrong and thoroughly inaccurate in this country?" Susan raised her brow into a perfectly calculated arch, enough to indicate skepticism and sarcasm in the same horrible instant. "In that case, I'd like to thank you for your perfectly_ legitimate_ rebuttal to Mr. Verdigris's public shaming."

"Oh, get bent."

"Henry Jones!"

_Oh crap…_

Mutt turned slowly. He already knew what he was going to see. The thundering voice had made it clear. Sure enough, Dr. Martin stood ominously behind him, glaring with a fierce intensity Mutt had never seen before after having overheard Mutt's more colourful use of the English language. Faster than one of Susan's verbal attacks, he cleared the remaining students out of the class – including Susan, much to Mutt's chagrin - and suspended the young Jones from class for the rest of the week. Being Wednesday, it wasn't the steepest punishment the professor had ever given out, but Mutt knew better than to be relieved. There was something Martin wasn't telling him, something he was saving.

The young man's suspicions were answered when the doctor held open the door for him to leave. Just as he reached the threshold, the professor added, "I'm suddenly relieved I made that appointment with the assistant dean next period. I thought we wouldn't have anything to talk about. I guess I was mistaken."

Mutt pulled himself from his teacher's grasp and stormed off down the hall. He might not be in trouble now, but he certainly would be when he got home.

He pushed his way through the crowds of Bishop's Square cursing Susan with every step. He hated her, every inch of her; every cell in her body, every neuron in her brain, he _hated_ her. He hated how she thought she was always right. He hated how the Socratic Method validated that thought. He hated how she was among the highest students in her classes. He hated how she looked with her sharp, bony features, her black gaze, and her mess of lengthy chestnut curls, the way she accentuated each with expensive clothing, jewelry and dark make-up like she was a crown royal instead of a professor's step-daughter. He hated her accent and her voice, the cracked, throaty, animal sounds that emerged from her mouth when she spoke. He hated her vocabulary, how she could say everything she meant without saying it at all. He hated how he got suspended for saying something honest, how his friend could get picked on and those willing to stand up to her were punished for their boldness. He hated how his dad was going to lecture him when he got home. He hated how long that lecture was going to take. He hated how he would probably be forced to apologize to her. He hated how she would smile at that. He hated how he would get expelled after that for punching the bitch's lights out. He hated…

"What was the damage?"

Mutt looked up from where he had been burning holes in the sidewalk with his stair. Anthony was standing by his side trying but not-quite-succeeding at matching the young Jones's pace. With the thoughts of his hatred simmering on the back burner of his mind, Mutt finally slowed down enough that they could walk.

"Two days suspension."

"That's nothing."

"He's telling my dad."

"Oh," Anthony's eyes widened. He put an arm over Mutt's shoulders and gave him a comforting pat on the back. "Nice knowing you."

"She shouldn't have the right to do that," Mutt spat bitterly.

"No, but she's gonna do it anyways. She's just a bitch, Mutt, let it go. I have."

"Nobody should have to," he muttered, and was haunted by the image of her smirk. "Geez – just once, just once I wish someone beat her at her own game."

"Amen to that," Anthony replied. "She's a tough nut to crack, though. I've seen her take on professors for the hell of it, and these are professors who know what they're talking about."

"It's not fair."

"No, it's not. But, look at it this way - she's only in one of your classes."

"Yeah, well, that's one class too many," Mutt growled. He could see her vividly in his mind seated in her shaded back corner, black eyes gleaming, as she smirked victoriously. When he tried using her as a punching bag his father dragged him out of the classroom by his ear. "Geez…"

"Hey, what do you say we stop by Merla's and get some root beers? I heard Chloe's working tonight."

_Chloe_, Mutt sighed. There was nothing he would rather do that go than go see Chloe Weaver in her little pink uniform, ash blonde hair bouncing in thick pigtails at her shoulders as she roller-skated from table to table in the tiny diner. He would probably say something awkward and stupid, but she'd smile and blush just the same as she brought them their orders. Just before leaving, she would probably suggest he walk her home after work or that they go to a movie that weekend, and he would probably say yes in the most small, affected fashion he could manage because Chloe Weaver was pretty, smart, and funny and could have any guy in the world but she chose him even though he couldn't think of a good reason why.

But all hopes of seeing Chloe were dashed by the storm clouds brewing in his mind, storm clouds created by 'Satan' Walsh consisting of Henry "Indiana" Jones Sr., a month-long grounding, and an apology for stupid Susan herself.

"Nah," he replied glumly. "I should get home. If my dad finds out I got suspended and went out afterwards, nobody'll find the body. At least if I get home early, I can work on a good defense."

Anthony remained silent, but he gave his friend an extra pat on the shoulder as if to say, "You're going to need it."

The bus stop was packed by the time they reached it. Students were crowded around the bench with papers and books in their hands, cramming as much as they could before next day. Mutt was too tired to notice. All his hating and dreading was beginning to wear him out. He wanted to crawl in a hole somewhere and let the world forget about him for a while. When he emerged, dad would have calmed down and Susan would have developed a terminal illness, preferably something foreign and hemorrhagic.

He lifted his gaze from the ground and stared off across the street. _I'm a dead man_, he thought to himself, watching as children raced across the playground yonder. _I'm a goner_.

A rush of adrenaline raced through his system suddenly. Mutt perked up and scanned the playground again, searching for something.

Anthony glanced over at his friend. Mutt had gone several shades paler. "Hey, man, you okay?"

Mutt didn't answer, he shifted about on his heels, standing up on his toes and twisting his head to get a better look. He took a step closer to the street to get a better view.

"Whatsamatter, Mutt, you see something?"

A camera flashed across the street. A group of students wandered past. Young children bounded in a hoard through the breaks in the crowds. The camera flashed again and made everything blur, colours bleeding into one another. Yet Mutt couldn't pull his eyes away. He had seen something, something from before, something familiar.

"Buddy, you're freaking me out. What's going on?"

"I thought I just saw my dad."

"Your dad?" Anthony's brow furrowed. "I thought he was in a meeting with Martin?"

"Not that dad," Mutt replied, and walked out into the street.

"MUTT!"

"DAD!" the younger Jones called, jogging now to the park on the other side of the street.

"MUTT! LOOK OUT!"

He didn't. He was transfixed on the shadowy figure in the crowds making a run for it across the park, away from him. Mutt reached out and called to him, but his cries were drowned by the piercing sound of a horn honking, brakes screeching and tires skidding before being cut off completely sharp pain exploding along his ride side.

Bright red light swallowed him that bled into white, followed quickly by darkness.

* * *

Till next time, folks - happy reading.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Stephen Spielberg, George Lucas, and their fabulous affiliates at Paramount and Lucasfilm. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: While recovering from a horrific car accident, Mutt is haunted by the form of his late stepfather Colin Williams. His investigation into the events surrounding his father's demise leads him to discover the dark truths about Nazism and the nature of evil.

Rating: T for language, violence, and graphic imagery.

Themes: Hurt/Comfort/Angst

Author's Notes: Wow – the response to chapter one was overwhelming. I'm glad you guys are hooked and my inserts haven't sent any bells and whistles off. I hope the second installment lives up to your expectations. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Two

Dr. Peter Martin's meeting with the assistant dean lasted only fifteen minutes when the call came through. The fetching young secretary, Catherine Moore, kindly informed the person on the other line that the dean was about to go into a meeting, but was cut-off midsentence by what her expression implied to be a death threat.

"Just hold for a moment please," she said, reaching for the phone.

"Don't you dare put me on hold, Catherine. Just get my husband on the line."

"Yes, Mrs. Jones. One moment," she set the receiver on the desk shakily and dashed as quickly as her stilettos would carry her to the assistant dean's office door. If there was one thing worse than an angry phone call from Marion Jones, it was an even angrier visit from the woman herself. Catherine had been fortunate enough during her short career to have never faced the wrath of Marion in person but always dreaded the day when she might have to.

She knocked on the door, hurriedly but professionally, as always. She barely waited for the dean to respond before she opened the door and entered his line of sight.

"Dr. Jones, your wife is on the line in the office."

"It's urgent?" Henry Jones Sr. rose from his seat.

"She said she would have me drawn and quartered," Catherine replied with a slight sigh.

Jones nodded understandingly, as if this were an everyday occurrence. "Back in a minute, Martin," he assured the professor, and strode past his secretary to her desk, picking up the phone quickly as he did so.

Marion didn't wait for a salutation. "Jones? There's been an accident."

His blood ran cold. "Are you hurt, Marion?"

"Not me," she replied, taking a deep breath. "It's Mutt. He's been in an accident…a car accident."

Henry nearly dropped the receiver. He gripped the edge of the desk to steady himself. "How bad?"

"They don't know!" he heard her voice crack as the hysteria set it. "They couldn't tell me anything."

"Where are they taking him?"

"Palm Springs."

"I'll meet you there," Henry assured her. He could hear her storm clouds brewing through the phone, anger and anguish at the same time. "Marion," he spoke through them, "He's going to be fine."

He felt her shaking her head on the other line. "I'll see you at the hospital," she told him, and hung up.

* * *

They were everywhere, the shadows; hovering, swarming, cluttering, muttering. They were everywhere in his line of vision, seething like one large, singular being, writhing at all sides screaming, shouting, and screeching in a thousand different tongues, tones, and timbres. It was like watching a demon rise out from hell as the lights danced overhead and painted them white and black with glare and shadow.

He tried to fight but couldn't move. There were straps across his chest, pelvis, and ankles, and where there wasn't straps there was pain; pain with every breath, with every movement of every muscle, marking every twitch and every spasm with a white hot agony that burned within and without him. He could feel the hot stickiness of blood on his cheek and could taste the sour, metallic tang in his mouth, clogging his throat as he struggled for every breath beneath the pain, the pain, the fucking, god awful pain.

They came to a stop suddenly under more light – _Fuck! My head…_ - and immediately began stripping him of his clothes – _Not the jacket, not the jacket!_ –with what felt and sounded to be garden sheers. He saw them hesitate when they got to his leg and tried to see what they were looking at, but someone held him down. "You don't want to see, you don't want to see."

"Yes, I want to see! It's my leg!" he threw himself against the straps and gasped in both surprise and agony. He had heard his bones move under his skin from the force, felt them scrape against one another with a sound like nails against a chalkboard, and shoot bands of white hot liquid streaming through his veins. His vision darkened, and he was unconscious again.

But not for long. He felt himself returning slowly, eyelids flickering against the lights – _brighter this time? Are you trying to kill me?_ – staring into the face of several masked figures. Only their eyes were visible, and all of them had Susan's eyes, each one burning black as coals from their skulls. They all wore Susan's smirk as well, under the masks, and Susan's jewelry, and Susan's hair, and Susan's dress. And they all were saying Susan things and doing Susan things like a twisted nursery rhyme. _This little Susan went to class, this little Susan stayed home. This little Susan made Mutt look like an idiot, and this little Susan did too. And this little Susan went, "Yippee! Yippee! Yippee!" all the way home when Mutt got hit by a car and died._

"You need to relax, son."

"I'm not your son!" he barked, but then realized that he was the man's son, because the man was Henry and he was holding him against the gurney with one hand as he raised Mutt's switchblade in the other.

"You'll feel better soon."

The knife was coming down upon him. Mutt hurled himself out of the way but was held down by more hands, hands from all directions, hands he hadn't seen coming. They were covering his face with something, something that was dripping with a sickeningly sweet smell that made his stomach shoot up into his neck and stay there, just waiting till his mouth opened up so it could hurl the rest of its contents all over those fucking hands.

He shifted, he jerked away, he buried his face in his shoulder; they eventually took him by the cheeks and held him under it. The scent swept into his nostrils and over his tongue, clinging to every nook and cranny of his mouth and nose. He fought the urge to breath but the aroma crept down his throat just the same. Suddenly he wasn't fighting he was drifting, slipping, falling backwards from those lights, those lights, those fucking lights! Away from this little Susan and this little Indy. He was falling so fast he barely felt his stomach give way, feel himself retch off the side of the gurney, feel the hands cleaning up his face and forcing more of the smell on him. He fell so fast he almost didn't see Colin's face above him, smiling warmly, like he was welcoming his son home.

Almost, but not quite.

* * *

There were no words for what Marion Jones felt in that moment, nor were there any more for her to listen to. Her son's entire graduating class had shoved themselves into the waiting room (mostly female, she noticed with equal parts humour and disdain), and each were taking the liberty of assuring her that Mutt would be alright. The nurses were schooled in the same art, but with different motives. Her son would be fine, they told her, now would she please fill out this form?

Marion had always wondered why hospitals seemed to think the answer to everything was filling out a form. It seemed like a silly greeting for the mother of an injured child. "How is my son?" "Fill out this form." "Where is he?" "We'll need you to sign this." "Were you dropped as children?" "Why yes, we'll need this for our records as well! Thank you and have a nice day!" She found the only thing that elicited any sort of non-form related reaction was a refusal to fill out of a form, an action all members of hospital staff seemed to associate with hostile individuals.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, it's hospital policy," a nurse informed her pointedly in her best imitation of Florence Nightengale.

"God damn hospital policy!" Marion said. "I want to know where my son is and I want to know before I fill out one more God damn line."

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down."

"Not going to happen," a deep baritone informed her pointedly. Marion sighed in relief and turned away from the administration desk to face her husband. "You go get the doctor and tell him we want to speak to him."

The nurse stared at him as if he were asking her to kill someone. "But…sir, it's hospital…"

"Go," Marion over her shoulder. The nurse nodded and took off.

"Jones," she said, and embraced him in the hospital corridor. He tightened his arms around her. She was shaking but not sobbing, merely needing reassurance after the world had been tugged unceremoniously out from beneath her feet, a silent promise that if she was torn to pieces that day, there would be someone there to help her pick up the pieces.

_But what if I __don't__ want to have to pick up the pieces_, she thought bitterly. _What if I don't want to lose my son? Did anyone think of that?_

Henry had. He placed a kiss on the top of her head and ran a hand down her back. There were so many things he wanted to say that he knew she wouldn't want to hear, so he forced them back into his throat and held them there with his breath. Marion clung to him all the tighter for it.

"He was alone, Indy," she said, "When they brought him in, he was alone."

"He's not alone anymore."

"I can't lose him."

"And you're not going to," he said sternly, pulling her closer. "You hear me, Marion? He's not going anywhere."

_He better not be_, she thought. _So help me, Mutt – you leave, I'm dragging you back by your ear._

"Mr. and Mrs. Jones?"

She turned immediately, comforted to find that Henry didn't release her until she was sure she wanted to be let go. The doctor – well, a doctor; the gentleman really could be anybody – was standing at the corner of the administration desk, hands folded in front of him with a chart in his hands.

"I'm Doctor Stevenson," he informed them, and before they could ask, he answered for them. "I'm not in charge of your son's case. He was assigned to Doctor Jenks just after being admitted. I apologize for not coming to have spoken to you sooner. We were having a little trouble getting your son into surgery."

"Surgery?!" Marion demanded. "What the hell happened?"

"Your son suffered extensive trauma to his right side," Stevenson replied succinctly, hiding his intimidation behind a wall of well-learned stoicism. He lifted the chart, pulled his glasses onto his nose, and began to recite the diagnosis. "Three cracked ribs, one broken; a sprained wrist and concussion 

from when he hit the ground; multiple scrapes and bruises from the pavement; and finally, a minor compound fracture to the right lower leg for which he required immediate reconstructive surgery."

"How can you have a minor compound fracture?" Marion lifted a brow. If looks could kill…

"Mrs. Jones, I've seen any number of badly broken legs in my career, and of all of them, your son is the cleanest, most precise break I've ever looked at. He should be able to make a full recovery, even with the surgery, assuming he takes proper care of it while it heals."

Marion breathed a slight sigh. _Well_, she took another breath; _I guess that's a bit of a relief_.

Indy rubbed her arm empathetically. _I've got you_, he seemed to say, and draped an arm around her side to hold her.

"You said you had some trouble?" Henry asked. Marion stiffened, but waited for an answer. Images of her distressed son, hurt, alone, and afraid, sent chills down her spine, but she couldn't look away from Stevenson, and her eyes pleaded for an explanation.

"He awoke just as they were bringing him into the OR, though how lucid he was, I'll never be sure. He seemed to think one of our nurses was a young woman named 'Susan', and I dare say he didn't like her very much."

Having never heard the name before, neither Henry nor Marion's curiosity was satisfied, but Stevenson continued. "He also seemed to think you were in the room with him, Mr. Jones."

"Me?" Henry raised a brow.

"Yes, he was becoming very agitated by your presence. We were just starting to give him the anesthetic when he went white as a sheet. We all thought his struggling had nicked an artery; he looked as if he'd seen a ghost."

The thought was chilling to Indy. He tried not to show his fear.

Marion swallowed the growing lump in her throat. She could feel tears on the edge of her vision, her hands shaking at her sides. _My little boy…_he must have been terrified. Waking up, surrounded by doctors, hallucinating, then forced to breathe that god awful ether until he passed out. She could see him on the gurney struggling, hear him crying out for somebody else, anybody else, someone familiar, someone who loved him, someone who would be there for him instead of just with him.

Henry's arm tightened around her side. "When can we see him?" he asked.

"I was just leaving them as Jenks was scrubbing in. With the cleanliness of the injury, they should be finished in about three hours, maybe less."

"Oh my God," Marion breathed, and sagged against Henry. He captured most of her weight with ease.

Stevenson sighed. "Now," he began, "If you have no further questions, I need you to fill these out."

He handed them a stack of forms as thick as Henry's forearm. Dr. Jones merely _looked_ at him.

Marion huffed and stormed away. It was all she could do to keep from punching the man.

* * *

Wow – originally this was all supposed to be one prologue. Guess I underestimated this one. Uh…FantasyGirl kindly informed in her review that 'Happy Reading' probably isn't the appropriate response to chapters for this story, so this time…happy reading other happy fics!

Better? Just a little?

Till next time,

Beguile


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Stephen Spielberg, George Lucas, and their fabulous affiliates at Lucasfilm and Paramount. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: While recovering from a horrific car accident, Mutt is haunted by the form of his late stepfather Colin Williams. His investigation into the events surrounding his father's demise leads him to discover the dark truth about Colin's time overseas and even darker truths about the Nazis and the nature of evil.

Author's Notes: I based this chapter on the words, "Poor," and, "Mutt." I hope my inspiration came through.

* * *

Chapter Three

"Does he have any allergies?"

Marion didn't answer. Henry looked up from the forms he had been press-ganged into filling out to where his wife was sitting and sighed. She hadn't even realized he'd spoken to her.

Instead, Marion had fixed her gaze on the wall and hadn't bothered to blink, tormented by the images of her son, her only son, getting hit by a car. She watched him fall into the street, watched his bone snap in two, the cleanest break an experienced doctor had ever seen. She watched his head hit the pavement with a blood curdling crack; watched him skid across the asphalt, rubbing the skin clean off his face and palms. She heard his ribs pop in his chest – actually pop – and his…

"Marion."

A hand was on her knee. _Mutt?_ She snapped from her reverie and found herself staring into the face of her husband. With a small sigh, Marion swallowed the lump in her throat and sank back in her seat.

"I need to know if he has any allergies," Henry said softly, slowly.

The words penetrated the thick fog of worry that had settled around her thoughts, and Marion finally mustered the strength to shake her head and mouth the word, "No."

"We're going to get through this," he told her.

"I keep seeing him," she admitted, leaning forward in her seat. She buried her face in her hands. "God, I can't get him out of my head."

Henry set the forms on the seat next to him and reached an arm around her back, drawing her to him again. "He's going to be fine," he told her. "He's gonna be just fine."

Marion pressed her head into his shoulder and breathed, just breathed, hoping her nervousness would dissipate every time she exhaled. No matter how many times Henry had said it, her instincts were telling her that something very wrong was happening, more wrong than Mutt simply having been hit by a car. _This isn't going to end well_, she knew, and held her husband even tighter for the realization.

The waiting room had quieted considerably in the past hour. Mutt's classmates had been cleared out not five minutes after Doctor Stevenson had arrived, having very nearly started a brawl. Only three had been allowed to linger, but even their numbers had dwindled. Kitty Bride, who had been infatuated with Mutt since he started at Marshall, was collected by her extraordinarily well-to-do parents, what had been infuriated by Mutt since he started at Marshall more than likely because of their daughter's infatuation with a greaser. Chloe Weaver had made the sixteen block trek from Merla's Diner on Baker Street to the hospital on a borrowed bicycle, no easy feat for a girl who just spent four hours in roller skates and was stuck wearing a ridiculously tight uniform. She spent an hour sitting with Marion until her mother's shift ended and she got a ride home, but even then Indy had to insist that she leave and promise to call her once they knew anything. Marion managed to hug Chloe before she left, whispering thanks into her ear before the young woman was escorted away by her mother.

Anthony Verdigris was the only student who had remained by that time, and he made his way across the waiting room shakily, intimidated by the sight of Mutt's parents. He had only ever met them a handful of times, always separately, and never under such intimate circumstances. This really was the last place he ever expected to be when he finally spoke to them both, and even though he had rehearsed everything he was going to say to them on the way over, his self-preservation instincts couldn't help but kick in when he thought of their reactions to what he was going to say. He still hadn't reacted to what he was about to say, and he had been there to witness it.

Coughing a little as he approached, he finally found his voice. "Um…Mr. and Mrs. Jones?"

The two looked up. Anthony wanted to throw himself out a third story window. They had been holding each other. They'd been neck to neck. _It's official_, he thought, cheeks burning crimson, _I'm the biggest asshole on the planet, and I'm your son's best friend._

After what felt like an eternity, the couple finally righted themselves. Anthony pretended someone had called his name from the opposite corridor, wanting to give them the blessed moment of privacy he should have given them in the first place. When he looked back, they were staring at him expectantly, while Marion gripped Jones's hand in hers discretely in her lap.

"I'm a friend of Mu..." he managed to correct himself at the last minute, "Henry's. I was there when he uh…" _Got hit by a car?_ "...when it happened. I would have come sooner but I was talking to police. Look uh...you don't need to punish Mutt for what he said to Susan. That really was all my fault."

_Who the hell is this 'Susan'_? Henry thought, narrowing his eyes decisively on the youth in front of him. "What did he say to Susan?"

Anthony blanched several degrees paler, if that were possible. "Oh," he stammered, pretending he had heard someone calling his name in the corridor for a moment. He ran a hand through his dark brown curls, scratching away some kind of persistent itch that had developed the second he decided to talk to Mutt's parents. "Oh, you know, something Martin said he was going to talk to you about. It really wasn't a big deal, though, seriously. Martin totally overreacted. Just uh…forget I said anything…please…"

The questions were coming. Oh God, he blew it. He had blown it straight out of the water. _I'm so sorry!_ He wanted to scream. He'd just piqued the interest of the legendary Dr. Jones. _Don't get medieval on me!_ He pleaded mentally. _I'm too young to get the rack!_

Thinking quickly, Anthony switched gears. "Anyways, the real reason I came to talk to you was about the…the um…"

_The thing where your son got hit by a car._

"They said it was an accident," Henry finished the statement for him. What else was there to say?

Anthony, apparently, thought there was more. "Actually, it was…I don't know, it was weird."

Marion's eyes narrowed. "Weird?" she asked, straightening. "Weird how?"

The younger man sighed. "Look," he began, sinking into the seat in front of them. Was it warm in there? He could have sworn the temperature had just risen by degrees. "Look I don't want to freak you guys out or anything, but there's something you need to know about the crash, something about Mutt."

"What is it?" Marion asked, leaning forward slightly in her chair.

Anthony cast a glance between the two Joneses, chewing on his bottom lip a little. "We were just standing at the bus stop, when suddenly he looks up and says he thinks he sees his dad across the lot."

"Well that's impossible," she commented, sinking backwards. "He was in a meeting, right? Martin today?" Henry nodded his reply.

"No," the younger man shook his head. "He said Dr. Jones was the wrong father."

Shivers shot down Marion's spine. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and swallowed the growing lump of hot coal developing in her throat. Leaning forward, she lowered her voice to a level more deserving of a dead man.

"He said he saw Colin?"

Now it was Henry's turn to squirm. He twisted towards Anthony, eyeing him closely for any signs of guile. There weren't any. He looked just as lost as they were.

"I don't know," he replied, "But he was calling for his dad as he was walking, and he knew it wasn't you."

Marion's mouth dropped open. "He walked across the street because he saw his father?"

Anthony nodded. Both Joneses sat in silence. Now there really wasn't anything to say.

They were spared the interminable awkward silence by the arrival of the doctor a second later. He was much younger than Stevenson, with only a small streak of gray hair across his scalp; very distinguished, really.

It was the name tag that caught Marion's eye though. _Jenks_.

"How is he?" she demanded, leaping to her feet. Jones followed a little more gracefully, leaving Anthony seated, staring wide-eyed at the man who had just arrived.

"He's sleeping," Dr. Jenks replied, "The anesthetic will probably keep him out for a few hours. Stevenson was right in his assessment of the leg – it was a very, very clean break. With some treatment, he should regain full use of the limb."

"Oh, thank God," Marion sighed with relief. "So he's going to be all right?"

"We're going to keep him here several days for observation, but otherwise, yes, he should be fine," the doctor gave them a small smile.

"Can we see him?" Indy asked.

"So long as he is not disturbed, you can stay as long as you like," Jenks replied. One look at Marion told him she wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

Even in the dim light, Marion didn't like what she saw. There were too many machines surrounding the bed, too many tubes attached to her little boy for the scene to be comforting. No matter what the doctor had said about it, no matter what Indiana had been telling her since this whole ordeal had begun, there was something so unnatural, so wrong with the scene, she nearly began to weep upon sight.

Stevenson, she found, had been equally correct in his assessment of the trauma to Mutt's right side. His bandaged wrist rested at his side on top of the blankets, swollen and disfigured. His face was bruised and scratched from where he had struck the pavement. She saw the pristine white bandages wrapped about his skull and smelled iodine and alcohol, a sure sign that they had stitched up his head. _The concussion_, a voice reminded her. Marion's heart sank into her feet.

The leg was what held her attention though. She arrived at the room and was immediately drawn to it. The casted limb held her gaze and sent her imagination reeling through a thousand graphic possibilities about what the injury looked like.

_Oh, pup…_she thought. _Oh Henry_.

They opened the door. She didn't waste another second. Marion rushed forward to her son's side and immediately slid her hand under his injured one. She kissed his forehead softly and reached her other hand up, playing with his hair as he slept. "Oh Mutt," she said, and kissed him again. "Oh Mutt, I'm here."

Indiana stopped short in the doorway, having volunteered to get Anthony a cab home and tell Chloe about Mutt's current condition. The sight of his wife standing over his injured son made his body tingle like he had been struck with an electric current. He leaned against the doorway, put his head in his hand, and tried to breathe.

* * *

Henry Jones Sr. blinked and sat up in his seat. He had been dozing. How the hell had he fallen asleep? Running a hand through his hair, he stretched as discretely as he could and leaned forward.

"What did you say?" he asked Marion.

She looked up from the bed, head resting next to Mutt's arm. She hadn't been sleeping. He had been watching her fingers move when he nodded off, watching them curl along their son's forearm and tease the edges of the bandages with her nails. Now, she was looking at him over Mutt's chest.

"I said he used to do that all the time."

"He used to do what all the time?"

"See Colin," she sighed at the memory. "Mutt would see him everywhere, especially after he died."

"It's hard for a kid to lose their dad, especially like that."

"Yeah," she replied understandingly, yet the way her eyes narrowed told him there was something she couldn't quite grasp. "But these weren't isolated incidences, Jones. He'd see Colin in the grocery store; he'd see him in the park. And this was after we had moved back to the States. It was a complete change for him, and he still managed to see his dad everywhere he looked."

Her eyes lowered, moved back to her son. Henry watched her closely in that moment, unable to pull his eyes away. He wanted to tell her…he didn't know what he wanted to tell her, but he knew it began with the words, "I'm sorry," and they were the last things Marion wanted to hear. His other option was, "I understand," but that was a lie: he didn't understand. His father's death had been slow and predicted. Indy was able to take time off work, spend the last weeks of the former Henry Sr.'s life saying goodbye. He doubted he had happier memories of the man than those leading up to his death. Sure, he was haunted, but only by memories, the wasted time, never his father's figure.

Henry raised a hand and brought it to rest by his son's head. Mutt's hair, his precious, gift-from-God hair, fell loosely around his ears in curls. His fingers trailed over the edges of the strands softly, lovingly, trying to wrap his head around everything that had happened. There hadn't been anything about this situation that he couldn't handle. What Anthony had said somehow changed everything, though. This wasn't a reckless driver or a reckless Mutt. Whoever constructed the accident, whatever divine forces composed the chaos that landed them here, it was now something greater than either he or Marion could imagine.

_Something is wrong_, he thought, and knew that something was more than just the sight of his son in a hospital bed. He slid his hand across Mutt's scalp and watched as the young man's face twitched in chemical slumber, shifting slightly on the bed to…what? Escape?

"…uh…n't touch my hair…"

A rush of adrenaline swept through him. Marion sat up on her side of the bed. "Mutt?" she asked, setting a hand on his shoulder warily lest she exacerbate any injuries he might have accumulated.

"Son?" the word was out of Indy's mouth before he could stop it.

A tenuous silence fell upon the room, thick, palpable, and fragile. A single breath might interrupt the delicate balance of the instant, send Mutt into cardiac arrest, into a seizure, into…Henry stopped himself. _He's going to be fine_, he told himself. _He's going to be groggy because of the anesthetic, disoriented because of the concussion, and very tired from the pain killers. But he's not dying, old man. _

The world could have spun around the sun four times in the amount of time it took for Mutt to finally open his eyes. They parted only a crack at first before sinking shut again, but after another moment of struggling, he managed a blink, then a flutter, and finally kept them open.

"Mutt," Marion breathed and nearly jumped out of her seat. The smile that overtook her face seemed to light up the room. Henry found himself leaning closer to the bed, not once removing his hand from his son's head.

Mutt winced, exhaling heavily. Everything. Hurt. His head hurt. His chest hurt. His leg hurt. Parts of his body he didn't even know existed hurt. He felt dizzy, detached, and nauseous, sensations only exacerbated by the lingering saccharine scent of ether in his nostrils and mouth. He was trapped in an absurd sort of limbo where he was always in pain but never aware enough to be sure it was really his body he was feeling.

His parents were there. That answered some questions, but spurred a million more to dance around his brain. Where were they? Why were they there with him? Why was he lying down? Were they in his room? Because he hadn't cleaned it like mom told him to about a hundred times and if she saw the state of it, he would never hear the end of it no matter how much agony he was in, because now dad was here and he would back her up and…

He blinked. Dim blue light cascaded in from the outdoors, coming to rest across white walls, white accents, white blankets, and white machines. _Okay…_he thought. _Mom's done some redecorating. _Either that, or he wasn't in Kansas anymore. He was in…

"Ah crap," he wheezed.

He was in a hospital. Another hundred or so questions just got answered.

"Mutt, honey…"

_Mom_, he thought with a satisfied sigh. He felt her hand on his cheek and it didn't hurt anymore. Mom always made everything better.

"I'll get the doctor."

A hand on his shoulder, patting it comfortingly. Yeah, that would be dad. Good old dad, gone to get the doctor. Mutt watched him rise, watched his form diffuse into the rest of the world as his vision succumbed to the residual drugs hovering in his system. Black seeped into white seeped into shadow. He shut his eyes tight and felt tears creep out the corners like the casing of fresh-fired bullets, hot and stinging.

Mom could always be counted on, though. She patted the tears away with her sleeves. "Mutt, she asked, "You're in a hospital. You were in a car accident, but you're all right. You hear me? You're all right."

"Doesn't feel all right," he had no idea where the words came from. His vocal cords were shot, and his statement came out like a hiss, a tire leaking air. With the barbiturates blocking his capacity to lie he admitted, in the weakest sounds he could possibly imagine, that it really, really hurt.

"Your father's gone to get the doctor," she told him. "They should be able to give you something."

He tried to shake his head, but couldn't face the agony of real movement. He settled on a loud swallow and a sad stare, the latter being purely involuntary. He wanted her to hold him. He wanted her to make the pain go away. He wanted her to talk him into sleep like she used to.

Something was bothering her though. Even in his semi-everything state, Mutt could always read his mother's face. His eyelids fluttered as he clung precariously to consciousness and uttered, "…what's wrong?"

Marion rolled her eyes. _Besides the fact that my son has just been in a car accident?_ _That the car accident may have been caused by his dead stepfather? _She figured sarcasm wouldn't be the best way to respond. Mutt always took everything so literally when he was working with a few cards short of a deck. She ran a hand through her hair. "I'm happy that you're all right," she said.

He sighed and felt a little better. _Car accident_, he thought, and then followed the thoughts backward in his mind. He remembered darkness. He remembered ether. He remembered Susan…somewhere...everywhere. He remembered telling her off in class. He remembered Martin's threat and the walk across Bishop's Square. He remembered the bus stop. But he couldn't remember anything after that.

"I can't…" he started, breathing heavily. Why couldn't he remember? "Mom, I don't…"

Mutt tried to lift a hand to his head but was stopped. Wires and tubes. Christ, there were so many of them. He let out a small whimper as he tried to lift his other hand and found it black, blue, and bandaged.

Bile rose in his throat. _What the hell happened to me? _He urged his thoughts into motion, trying desperately to remember.

"Mutt, honey, calm down," Marion urged. His heart rate had spiked and his breathing was shortening. She drew his face to hers and looked in him in the eye. "Mutt, I want you to listen to me. You've gotta calm down."

"I don't remember," he told her. His fear made his voice crack even more. He was missing something. They'd taken something from him. "Mom, I can't…I don't…"

She hushed him, smoothing a hand over his scalp. "You don't have to," she told him. "It'll come to you. Right now you've got to rest."

"I have to...there's something…"

_There's someone. There's someone there. He's there, mom; he's there. I have to…I have to…_

He felt his mother rise from her seat. He tried to reach for her but the tubes stayed his hands again. _No, mom…_ he wanted her back. He wanted her there with him. She had to know what he had seen...even though he didn't know what it was.

"He said it hurts," she told someone.

"Henry?" an authoritative voice. "Henry, can you open your eyes for me?"

He did so, trying and failing to get his breathing under control. The doctor took the liberty of then burning his retinas with a pen light without warning and taking way longer than was feasibly healthy.

"Pupil reaction's normal. Are you in any pain?"

"I just told you…"

His mother was in protective mode.

"Marion," dad stopped her.

"Henry?" the doctor asked again.

Mutt managed a nod. Yes, he was in pain, okay? No, he couldn't remember what had happened to him. Yes, he wanted to sleep. No, he didn't want his parents to leave. Why couldn't there be one single, universally recognized, non-emasculating gesture that represented all of these things?

Somehow, the doctor got the point. It only took a few seconds for him to summon a nurse and have her administer another injection through the tube in his left arm. "You'll start feeling better soon," she assured him, patting him on the arm before she left the room.

He looked to his parents. "Don't leave?" he had wanted it to be a resolute statement, but it came out as more of a question. He was already starting to feel himself drift.

Dad patted him on the shoulder. "We're not going anywhere."

Mutt's eyes closed. His breathing evened out. He could taste the saline on the back of his tongue, clean and cool and perfect, and he let himself fall out of awareness into dreamlessness.

Marion sighed and pressed herself against her husband. "He doesn't remember," she said.

"Should we tell him?" Henry asked her softly.

"We'll wait to see what he remembers," she said, "But otherwise…no."

* * *

**Till next time, dear readers, happy-ish reading!!**


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Stephen Spielberg, George Lucas, and their crazy-awesome affiliates at Lucasfilm and Paramount. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: While recovering from a horrific car accident, Mutt is haunted by the form of his late stepfather Colin Williams. His investigation into the events surrounding his father's demise leads him to discover the dark truth about Colin's time overseas and even darker truths about the Nazis and the nature of evil.

Author's Notes: Again, I may be taking some liberties with medicine here. For that I apologize - pacing and context requires me to make Mutt a fast healer and plot demands that he do some of his healing at home. I apologize to any members of the medical community currently shaking their heads.

WARNING!! There is some Mutt/OC stuff in this chapter, the most blatant taking place after the third page break or the fourth section of the chapter itself (it's the fourth page break if you count the one immediately beneath all this introductory nonsense). If you're not a fan, you can easily just skip that part and head straight to the end – I tried to make the section as optional as I could.

Enjoy!!

* * *

Chapter Four

-Two Weeks Later-

Marion stood at the open doorway of her house, looking out at the porch in dismay. She placed her hands on her hips. "That's it," she declared, "I am going to kill the next person bringing any sort of baked good to this house."

Upon hearing his wife's declaration, Henry Sr. appeared at the door of his office, hands filled with a stack of midterms he was to have marked weeks ago. "What was that?" he asked. Marion gave a slight toss of her head, gesturing to the porch with her scalp, a movement that, mixed with her previous statement, piqued his curiosity to the point that he threw the papers down on the nearby bookshelf and marched over.

He came to an immediate stop at the doorway and stared out in amazement. The entire porch, every single inch of it, was covered, wall-to-rail and floor-to-ceiling with all manner of foods. There were plates of cookies, platters of cakes, dishes of casseroles and lasagnas, baskets of strange cheeses and crackers. Each was prepared and presented in the most esthetically pleasing way possible. They were all wrapped in cellophane and ribbons, all positioned on the porch to be more obvious than the dishes placed before it, and all bore similarly coloured cards expressing some kind of condolence or another.

"Refresh my memory," Indy urged his wife, "He survived the accident right?"

Marion laughed lightly. He leaned down and picked up a particularly elaborate offering of butter tarts. _To __Mutt__ Henry_, it read in elaborate cursive, _Get Well Soon. –Rachel Kennedy 555-8734 XOXO_.

"I suppose we all show our concern in different ways," Marion said upon reading it. She surveyed the porch again muttering, "Some of us more distasteful than others."

Indy put his hands on his wife's shoulders and gave them an affectionate rub. "On the bright side – it looks like dinner's taken care of for the next few weeks."  
She laughed again, harder this time, the first real laugh in a long while. Ever since Mutt's accident, Marion and Indy regarded their son as a part of a fragile balance: straying even a little could land him back in a hospital bed or worse, six feet under in the local cemetery. Hearing Marion laugh made Indy's heart lighten, and, staring out at their son's recently acquired collection of pastries, made him hopeful enough to think that they were going to get through this.

She leaned in close and spoke softly into his ear. "I'm going to check on invalid son," she patted him on the side. "Would you mind piling some of these in the kitchen, darling?"

Indy sighed as she strode past him. "Yes dear," he walked out onto the porch.

There were so many of them, he didn't know where to begin. He thought he should start with the heaviest ones first, but they were scattered so randomly he simply started grabbing whatever lay nearest him, building a stack, and carrying it as quickly inside the house as he could.

Marion entered the kitchen on the third or fourth load, bearing a recently emptied food tray from their son's room.

"How is he?" he asked her.

"Oh, he's apparently 'just fine'," she scoffed. Henry could hear the sarcasm in her voice from a mile away. She began to empty the dishes from the tray into the sink. "Well enough to run a marathon."

"He wants out of the house."

"He wants off the planet, so long as he gets to move around," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"He's not taking his medication, is he?" Henry asked. The drug cocktail the doctors had him on initially kept Mutt under almost twenty-four hours a day. The kid was clearly altering his dosage if he had enough energy to tell his mother he was antsy. _Hell, to even recognize his mother_, Indy mused. There were times when he hadn't even been aware enough to do that in the beginning. "Can't say that I blame him."

"Oh, I don't either. But eventually, he is going to try and walk, and Lord knows it's going to be soon."

"What makes you say that?" Henry asked, worried that she had caught him up and around.

Marion rolled her eyes. "Look at who his father is."

He sighed in response and tried to reassure her. "He's going to be fine."

Her sigh was louder. "I know," she nodded. "I just can't think about anything bad happening to him again, least of all when he still has so much healing to do."

Henry nodded. He knew. He had never felt more helpless than he did two weeks ago, and he would do anything to keep from going through that again.

* * *

Indy was gathering the last load of food when he noticed the woman in the driveway. As if the silhouette of her skirt weren't enough of a giveaway, the load of packages in her arms certainly was. He didn't even bother to hide his dismay this time, simply approached the open arch over the front steps, hands buried deep in his pockets. He was perfectly prepared to send this well-wisher on their way with their offerings when he caught a glimpse of her face peering out from around the boxes.

"Hello Chloe," he said with a slight wave.

The young woman lifted her head, just barely able to see over the parcels in her arms. Henry saw enough of her eyes to know that she was just as unimpressed as his wife, perhaps more so.

"Hi Doctor Jones," she replied. He took immediate note of the exasperation in her voice and smiled slightly, descending the steps to give her a hand with the parcels. The five stacked across her forearms were all pies tied in elegant white boxes, each bearing those little white tags with more platitudes scrawled on them, while the picnic basket hanging from the opposite forearm was a clear contrast, worn and well-used as it was.

"Contrary to popular belief, I only have one son," he told her.

"You should really think about telling more people that," she handed him the boxes gratefully, sighing a thanks she gave her arms a rest. "The entire student body at Marshall seems to think your entire family's in for a visit, including all your dead relatives."

"These aren't yours?"

She gave a light laugh. "Oh, gosh no, Dr. Jones. I set foot in a kitchen and something starts on fire. No, these are from a quintet of ladies in comparative literature for Henry, though one expressed her condolences to you and Mrs. Jones over the recent passing of your son."

Indy sighed. The rumour mill had been churning in their absence, and while he normally ignored gossip, this recent development was not something he took lightly. Still, he managed a dry response to the comment. "Nothing like apple pie to ease the pain of the loss."

Chloe gave another small, breezy laugh, which yielded to an awkward silence. Indy normally had no trouble with conversation, least of all with the opposite sex, but there was something foreign and sacred about his interactions with his son's girlfriend (or friend who happened to be a girl. Mutt was always intentionally shady about the details of his relationship with her and she was rarely invited over to comment). He found himself wishing he had more time to adjust to all this fatherly nonsense, a few minutes to think about what to do and how to do it, especially now that it was being complicated by his son's injuries and possible intimacies with a young woman.

Scratching his head sheepishly, he cast a glance at the house and looked back at her. "You're uh…you're here to see Mu...Henry."

It was obvious, but if there was one thing he knew it was to rely on the obvious in strange territory, and this conversation was certainly taking him onto foreign ground.

"If he's feeling up to having visitors. He was a little disoriented last time." _Understatement of the decade_, Indy thought. "Otherwise, I'll just leave this here for later."

She lifted the picnic basket slightly, struggling a little with its weight. The sides seemed to be suffering from the same problem and creaked uncertainly from the movement, a sound that made both father and friend-girl wince in anticipation of disaster.

"So long as there's not a single cookie, tart, cake, or casserole in there, I'm sure that will be fine," he told her. Chloe smiled. "Why don't you just uh…come and wait in the…"

She nodded in understanding. "That sounds great."

There was a brief but interminable moment of tension as they delegated their roles. Henry wasn't sure who should lead and follow in this case. Typically, he would have gone first, but he had always been told it was impolite to turn your back on a woman. But Chloe wasn't a woman, was she? And if she was, what did that make his son?

_Get a grip, old man_, he told himself, and decided that, for the sake of simplicity, he should just allow the guest to decide.

Unfortunately, Chloe was just as clueless as he was. She took a small step forward, and then another, until she and Indiana were standing side-by-side, neither able to proceed. When she finally went to take another step forward, his brain reacted and did the same, leaving Chloe standing stalk still on the path, confused again.

They laughed uneasily, trying to relieve the inane tension of the moment. "After you," he insisted at last, hoping that would clarify things.

"No, I insist," she replied, gesturing him forward with another smile.

Henry sighed. "All right," he said and, with a roll of his eyes, thanked Chloe before marching to the house.

Marion met them in the foyer, eyes immediately falling on the picnic basket. "So help me Chloe, if that has anything baked…"

"No, no, Mrs. Jones. I wouldn't have even if I could. All that's in here is some cold cuts, dinner rolls, and ice cream."

The basket creaked unconvincingly. Marion's eyes narrowed dangerously and Chloe remembered herself. "Oh," she said, "And some books."

"Some?" Marion asked. Chloe blushed.

"Give or take," she said. Lifting the lid, she revealed what could have been half the Marshal library stacked neatly in one half of the basket. When she noticed the looks both Joneses were giving her, she offered a quick explanation. "I didn't know what he was in the mood for."

"Oh, he's in the mood for anything right about now," Marion replied. "I'll go see if he's decent. Make yourself at home, Chloe. I'm sure he'll be desperate for company."

Chloe nodded her thanks as Marion headed up the stairs. She set her basket on the floor and shook out her arms to ease some of the pain hauling that many books had caused. In the midst of the moment, her gaze met Indy's, held it, and then looked away. He found himself doing the same, rooted to the spot in his foyer, sharing awkward glances with his son's girlfriend…er, friend-girl.

In the happiest moment of epiphany he had ever experienced, Henry's hands trembled, and he was reminded of the pies he was carrying.

"I'm going to go…"

"Okay," she nodded, understanding immediately.

"Yeah," Indy said, and walked off to the kitchen as fast as he could.

* * *

Mutt jerked out of sleep like he was being attacked. His ears were ringing, his head was aching, his chest was tight, and his leg was burning like someone was bathing it in sulfuric acid. The nagging suspicion that he was being watched reared its ugly head immediately after he became aware of his physical agony, and with his eyes wide and heart pounding, he performed an immediate search of his bedroom for any sign of intruder.

There wasn't one. The door was shut and the windows were empty, looking out at only a clear, cloudless midday sky. His stay in the hospital and temporary drug regimen had given his mother ample time to channel her worry into menial, day-to-day tasks like cleaning his bedroom, so there was no longer anywhere to hide. All the auspicious piles of clothing had been folded and neatly tucked away in his bureau. His books, his sole source of entertainment, were organized neatly on his bookcase, save for the growing pile he had been building on his night table. The only area that remained out of sight was under the bed, but Mutt didn't want to risk increasing the amount of pain he was already in strictly because of a little dream-induced paranoia.

The thought should have been a comfort, but it wasn't. No matter how much he tried to shake the feeling, how much deep breathing he did to quell his fears, his reaction was too real and too visceral to be attributed entirely to a dream…whatever that dream might have been.

He looked at his clock. 10:43. A.M. "Christ," he breathed. He had been out less than twenty minutes. Worse, he had just taken his medication an hour ago. It shouldn't be hurting that much, but it did.

The knock on his door sent shockwaves through his skull. Mutt gritted his teeth against the agony and closed his eyes tightly, waiting for the pain to crescendo before answering. It seemed to take forever but finally, just as his mother was about to break the door down, he felt the tension in his body ease and the drugs take over again, washing away the pain until it was nothing more than a steady burning ache. Mutt swiped the sweat off his brow, tapped some colour into his cheeks, and had himself propped up on his pillows just as Marion stepped in.

"I was knocking," she said, concern readily apparent in her voice.

Mutt nodded and rubbed his eyes. "I must have dozed off," he told her, lifting his gaze from the floor to her face. She had gone pale in that moment, and though he wanted to ignore it, he found himself uttering, "Sorry," a second later.

"Are you all right?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

Mutt's mouth went dry. _How does she do that?_ He nodded shakily. "Yeah. I was just shifting a little too much, I guess. My leg…"

"Do you need...?"

"No," he shook his head. "I kind of want to remember the next eight hours. Thanks though."

"Because you know, you can take a more…"

"Seriously, mom, I'm good," he nodded and changed the subject. "What's going on?"

Marion was to busy trying to read her son to notice that he had asked her a question. He looked pale to her, shaky, weak, tired. None of those were really new, but something felt different about it, like there was something Mutt wasn't telling her.

Still, she found herself snapping out of the train of thought a second later. "Uh…Chloe's downstairs. She's asked to see you."

His heart leapt a little. _Chloe_…she had been there, hadn't she? In the hospital? He had the faintest recollections of her sitting in the chair next to him, reading to him, holding his hand, playing with his hair...she liked his hair. He thought she liked it even more because he hated it when she touched it, or pretended to, at least.

He found himself nodding before he had even answered. "Yeah sure," he said casually.

"It's okay if you're not up to it," Marion told him.

"No, it's fine. I'd like to see her," he nodded resolutely. Marion matched the gesture and reached for the door handle.

"I'll uh…I'll bring her up," she said.

Mutt nodded again. She stepped out of the room and into the hall.

* * *

No sooner had his mother left, Mutt was tidying up. He straightened the books on his night table three times before deciding that they were a nuisance, and tossed them on the floor on the opposite side of the bed. He grabbed his comb from where it lay by his alarm clock and ran it through his hair in a mad race against time, forgetting for a good minute and a half that Chloe would only mess it up again when she arrived. When he finally realized it, he could hear her on the stairs, talking to his mother – "…four others applying for the position, so I don't think I'll…" He could see her in his mind's eye, chatting away, smell her perfume… _Oh God, do I smell? Oh crap…_ It had been a while since he got to wash himself down. Mutt sniffed himself. _Thank God_, he thought. He certainly smelled slept-in, but not nearly as bad as it could have been. He tossed his comb on the table (after giving his hair a few more strokes out of instinct more than anything) and managed to lie back on his pillows, just in time for her to knock.

He put on his best voice. "Come in."

She was smiling when she stepped inside, and Mutt felt the gesture wash over him like warm water. He was waved from the bed. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," Chloe replied, closing the door behind her. She gave him a once-over from where she stood. "You're looking well for a dead man."

"That's the word on campus then, huh?" he gave a light laugh. By the time he got out of this one, he would be a Marshall College legend.

"I can't think of a person who hasn't heard that one," she walked towards the bed, setting her basket on the floor nearest to her as she sank next to him. "I've had four girls ask me what you left me in your will."

"And what did I leave you?"

"Oh, it was very nice," Chloe replied with a wry smile. "It's a shame you're still alive."

"Well, when I do die, don't say I never did nothing for yah."

They smiled at one another, able to feel the anxiety from the past two weeks dissipating slowly. He had to admit, he had never felt as comfortable as he did in her presence than right now. He was still intimidated by her. He was still intimidated by the fact that he liked her. He imagined he would always be intimidated by the fact that she liked him too. Yet there was an ease to their relationship now, like they had managed to break through to each other somewhere, though when, where, and how far would probably always be a mystery.

"I brought sandwiches and ice cream," she announced. "Where would you like to start?"

Mutt stared at her in awe. "You have to ask?"

Chloe rolled her eyes and pulled the ice cream out of the basket along with two spoons. Mutt accepted them eagerly and had the top pulled off the small carton while she made herself more comfortable, laying down on her stomach next to his uninjured side.

He handed her the second spoon. "Thank you," she said, and scooped a bite for herself. He made sure to take a larger scoop than she. After a week's worth of hospital food and being too tired to eat, he intended to savour each and every bite of this.

"So," she began, kicking her feet slowly through the air, "Are you doing okay?"

"Yeah," he nodded, taking another large bite. "You know, my cast itches like hell and I'm in insane amounts of pain every couple of hours, but, yeah, you know, other than that, I'm doing okay."

Chloe took another bite of ice cream, sucking the residue off her spoon. "Are you sleeping okay?"

His heart skipped a beat, but he managed to hide his reaction well enough that she couldn't have noticed. He took another bite of ice cream and shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."

"No nightmares or…?"

Mutt gave her a very serious look, setting the spoon across the top of the ice cream tub. "What's this about, Chloe?"

"Nothing," she shook her head. "Just interested."

"Interested how?"

She rolled her eyes as if it were obvious. "I'm just…I'm worried, you know, about you."

"You've got nothing to be worried about," he told her. "I'm still here."

Chloe remained unconvinced. She pressed the bowl of her spoon against her lips and stared at him, eyes losing focus as she lost herself in thought.

Now it was Mutt's turn to roll his eyes. "Chloe, seriously: I'm fine. I'm going to be fine."

There was a beat, but finally, her expression firmed. "Fine," she told him, scooping another bite of ice cream, "But I'm still worried."

"Well, fine," he replied, effectively ending the conversation. Then, as if to seal the deal, he took a very large and very messy bite of ice cream. Apparently, it was even messier than he expected, because when he looked back at Chloe, she was wearing a pinched expression on her face and was staring hard at his face.

"You have a little…" she pointed to her upper lip.

"What?" He asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Chloe blushed. "What? Where…?"

Chloe sighed. She set her spoon on the night table and climbed onto her arms, crawling across the bed to him. "Right here," she said, leaning in. He held himself steady, eyes on the opposite wall. At the base of his periphery, Chloe's lips were drawing closer to his own. He breathed deeply, preparing himself for the soft, warm feel of her lips on his.

But it never came. At the very last minute, Chloe reached up and brushed the line of melted cream from his lip with her fingers.

"There," she said, leaning back. With a sly sort of smirk, she licked the sticky mess off her hand.

Mutt narrowed his eyes. _So that's the way she wants to play it. _He lifted himself from the pillows.

"I had a little something there?" he asked. Every decibel in his voice was a challenge to her, and he watched as the intensity in her eyes flared to life. She laughed in response and softened her expression, a challenge unto itself.

"You had a little something there," she shrugged.

He set the ice cream on the night table, out of harm's way. "Yeah, well it looks like you got a little something on you too."

He caught her arm and kissed it from palm to elbow. Chloe laughed loudly, scrambling to get away without any real urgency. Ignoring the stiffness in his joints, Mutt pulled her down on the bed next to him, pinning her between his arms and torso.

"It looks like you've got some here too," he observed, kissing her shoulder and neck, stopping at her chin to playfully comment, "Good Lord, you're a messy eater."

"Hey!" Chloe gave him a playful tap on his uninjured cheek and pushed herself to the edge of the bed. Mutt looked her directly in the eye, a mischievous smirk belying the more serious tone the game had taken on. She matched his stare, a triple-dog dare to do his worst.

He inched forward, savouring every precious second it took him to reach her face. Chloe's expression loosened, but just as her eyes began to close, he pulled back and brushed his fingers across her lips.

"There," he said, satisfied.

Chloe let out a small scream and hooked a finger around the collar of his pajamas, halting his movements and holding him still as she lifted her head and kissed him softly, sweetly.

Mutt sighed inwardly as she fell back on the bed. He eased himself onto the pillows, gazing down at her all the while. "You know," he said, "I know a great way to relieve some of that worry."

She propped her head up on her arm, smiling, eyes gleaming. "I think I know exactly what you mean."

"Do you?"

"Yep," she nodded.

He shifted down to her, abandoning the playful challenges of before, the childish sort of games they would play with one another. She was waiting, smiling widely at the prospect of stress relief.

His eyes closed…

And his lips met something hard, withered, and musty.

When he looked, he was staring at the withered covers of two books Chloe had fanned in front of her face.

"Austen or Shelley?" she asked.

Mutt just _looked_ at her. _Definitely not what I had in mind_.

"Shelley," he lay back on the pillows.

"Good choice," Chloe replied, putting _Sense and Sensibility_ back into the picnic basket behind her. "_Frankenstein_ it is."

* * *

By the time Chloe left, Mutt was in a doze, and this time it wasn't from the pain killers. His stomach was nicely settled, happily filled. He was warm, he was comfortable, and he was relaxed, a combination he found perfectly satisfying after his disturbing wake-up call that morning.

She read to him for about an hour before he found himself slipping. Suddenly, he was losing words, and then sentences, and then finally, he lost the sound of her voice, hovering somewhere just below consciousness. It didn't help that she was playing with his hair or massaging his neck and face, it only gave him the incentive to fall faster and more willingly, because how could the dreams be bad when reality had been so deliciously good?

He didn't even feel her leave when she finally got up. The bed still felt warm where she had been lying and her scent clung so strongly he imagined she was still there beside him, reading to herself in silence. He could still feel her fingers in his hair, her stomach beneath his head, her legs coiled around his. He eventually drifted off to sleep with her ghost lying next to him, holding him.

When he opened his eyes, the room was dark. Night had fallen so suddenly, so acutely, his first instinct was to get worried, but something inside him told him that this was all right, that this was natural. _Just let it go_, a voice inside assured him, and Mutt did. He let it float away. He just let it float away.

A heavy weight sank upon the bed next to him. It was too heavy to be Chloe and too thin to be either Marion or Indy. Again it struck Mutt that he should be worried, that he should cry for help or try to run, but the voice was back, the soft, breathless whisper that assured him this was all right, this was meant to happen.

_"Henry…"_

"Dad…" he breathed, satisfied, and inched towards the figure on the side of the bed. It was dad back at last, just like he had promised. He came back just like Mutt always knew he would.

A warm hand smoothed across his brow and combed through his hair. _"Henry…_" the voice breathed again. _"Henry…"_

Mutt sank into the touch. His eyes began to close. It was like he was drifting out of his body, passing through his bones and flesh to the darkness on the other side. He felt the hand curl over his head, felt it run down his neck and upper back, felt it twirl his hair between its fingers, run his flesh beneath its palm. And with every touch, he found he couldn't resist the urge to fall back, to join the darkness that was beckoning.

_"Henry…"_

The warmth faded, and suddenly, Mutt realized he was cold. He felt the hand in his hair slow to a halt, twisting his hair one last time just above his ear before stiffening and falling against the young man's face in the dark. He felt the cold chill of death, smelled decades' worth of rot, and realized that the figure twitching in the darkness _was_ Colin, but that he hadn't come back at all. Not alive. Not even human.

Somewhere in the distance, brakes were screeching. Tires were skidding against asphalt. A young man was chasing a specter across a busy street. Mutt heard someone call his name – his _real_ name – just as metal struck bone and a sickening crack threw him against the pavement.

And then there was pain.

And then Mutt woke up.

* * *

**Well…happy reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Stephen Spielberg, George Lucas, and their positively fabulous affiliates at Paramount and Lucasfilm. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: While recovering from a horrific car accident, Mutt is haunted by the form of his late stepfather Colin Williams. His investigation into the events surrounding his father's demise leads him to discover the dark truth about Colin's time overseas and even darker truths about the Nazis and the nature of evil.

Author's Notes: Okay, so I've never been the most popular author on this site. My longest and highest reviewed story, _Van Helsing 2_, maxed itself out at around 2500 hits. And that was after several months of hard work and twenty-four chapters. Since posting my _Indiana Jones_ fics three weeks ago, I have amassed over 10,000 hits on _Anatomy_ and almost 3000 on _Sleeping Dogs_. THANK YOU EVERYONE! Whether you just read the disclaimer or every chapter, I truly appreciate your interest. Thank you, thank you, thirteen thousand times, I thank you.

And now, without further ado…

* * *

Chapter Five

"Please don't make me do this."

"Out of the car, Junior."

"I'll write her a letter."

"Junior…"

"I'll buy her a nice fruit basket or something. Please!"

Henry Sr. pointed out the passenger window of the car. "Out. Now."

"Do you know what this girl does to people?

"Does it look like I care?"

Mutt immediately changed tactics, exhaustion wearing his fighting spirit thin. He leaned his elbow against the window and dropped his head into his hand. "Please," he begged, turning his gaze on his father. "Please don't make me do this."

For a moment, Henry nearly caved. He saw the look in his son's eyes, the weariness of his recovery creeping into every cell of his face. Mutt's appearance had darkened and thinned over the past few weeks, even after the doctor replaced his cast for a metal brace. Henry had initially believed mobility would give Mutt some of his energy back, but for some reason he only seemed to wear himself out further.

But today, Indy was spurred on by other forces, and had to insist. Martin, the idiot, had ran his mouth straight to Montague, who, in turn, ran to Henry and insisted something be done. Normally, the trials and tribulations of academic bureaucracy didn't bother Henry, but that was in Indy World. In Indy World, Mutt's choice of words would never come under scrutiny, not by Martin, not by Montague, and not by him. But in the world of Doctor Henry Jones, assistant dean, the rules were quite different.

"I'll be right here when you get back," Henry said. "Now go."

Mutt couldn't get the door open fast enough. In fact, he would have done it faster if his right leg hadn't been the one closest to it. He hopped out onto his left leg, gritting his teeth as the change in altitude sent blood back into his still mending limb. Yet his anger forced him to put some weight on it, to encourage the pain, to increase it, all to distract himself from the humiliating nature of his father's judgment and the brutal task that lay before him.

He slammed the door and gave Everett Hall a long stare. The building was quiet now, vacant and still. His father had driven him down specifically for this time so Mutt could make it through the school at his slow pace and not have people hold him up with stares or conversation. He was to go to class and come back again, that was all.

Oh, and apologize to Susan. Right.

_It had to be that_, Mutt sighed, taking a step forward. Out of the colourful array of punishments he had suggested – a fair few of them taken directly from the pages of history – Indy had stuck to his guns and stated that if Mutt simply apologized to her, in person, he was off the hook. There was no counter-offer, no alternatives. There never was in the Jones household. Mutt would do as he was told with or without complaint.

To be fair, it wasn't like he was bedridden any longer. The doctor had graciously traded his bulky cast for an even bulkier brace, the upside being that Mutt could get around by himself and, to the young man's intense relief, bathe. He still had an angry gash the size of his fist on the left side of his calf, a wound that caused every fiber of tissue to cry out in agony when he applied the slightest amount of weight on it, but for the time he was moving and that would suffice.

But it wasn't his leg that had Mutt in a sour mood before the ordeal even began. He hadn't been sleeping well. Correction: he hadn't been sleeping much at all. He would wake up in the middle of the night with his father's name on his lips and a figure in his mind shrouded entirely in shadow while his leg throbbed with a white hot intensity at the foot of his bed. For hours afterwards he would doze in and out, shocked back into wakefulness when he realized his eyes had closed and something might have crept into the room when he wasn't looking.

Mutt's chest tightened just thinking about it. He grabbed his comb and ran it through his hair several times in an effort to calm his nerves. It didn't help, least of all as the door to Martin's classroom came into view and the weight of his task fell upon him again. _The guillotine was easier than this_, he thought with a groan.

"Hey, look whose back from the dead!"

For a moment, Mutt worried he'd found himself in worlds of trouble. The points of inflection in the statement were hard to read. It could just as easily been Drew Larson and his gang who found him hobbling as it would have been for members from his own group. Thankfully, it was the latter of the two, namely the ever-faithful Ethan Croft and Bill Baxter that approached him from down the hall.

"Word around campus was that the car split you in two," Ethan informed him.

"Sorry to disappoint," Mutt said. He tried not to groan as the two clapped him on the back.

Bill's eyes went wide as saucers at the sight of his leg. "Whoa! Man! What's with the hardware?"

"Making sure my leg doesn't come apart again."

"It came apart once already?" Bill smiled. "Right on."

"Yeah, right on," Mutt rolled his eyes. "Couldn't have said it better myself, Bill, thanks."

"No problem, man," the young man nodded smugly.

Ethan pressed on with the conversation. "So what are you doing here, man? Your dad's not sending you back yet, is he?"

"Just for a couple minutes. I have to say apologize to Susan Walsh."

"Oh, geez, your dad found out about that?" Ethan winced. "I'm feeling a whole lot sorrier for you."

"Yeah, I'm feeling a whole lot sorrier for me," Mutt replied. "Where you guys headed?"

"Physics," Ethan rolled his eyes.

"History...I think…" Bill shrugged carelessly.

"Yeah, I'll leave you to it."

"Look both ways before you cross the street," Ethan said jokingly, giving his friend another pat on the back before walking away. Mutt punched him in the shoulder for the gesture…and to mask his inability to breathe because of it.

Bill was much more subtle. He bobbed his head and waved. "Right on," he said, and walked after Ethan.

Mutt raised a brow. "Yeah, right Bill," he wheezed, and turned to Martin's classroom.

_Still empty_. He breathed a sigh of relief. Mutt took advantage of the solitude and collapsed into the nearest desk. Both of his legs throbbed painfully now, the right from the wound and the left from holding up his body weight after almost three weeks straight of bed rest. Had he the strength, he might have walked back to the car, but he knew it wouldn't do him much good. Indy would have him back here tomorrow, hobbling through Everett Hall until he finally told Susan he was sorry.

The bell chimed, signaling the end of a period. For the first and only time, Mutt found himself wishing Susan came to class early. The less time he had to spend in the company of the Marshall student body like this, the better. Being a campus celebrity no longer sat so comfortably with him. Being regarded as a member of the walking dead had started to petrify him, and he though he wasn't entirely sure why, he knew it had something to do with his dreams at night.

Students filtered in through the door, knocking Mutt out of his reverie. He was worried for a moment that he might be swamped with curious classmates, but was relieved when they kept salutations to a minimum. As predicted, there was a lot of talk about him dying in the crash, statements he tried to laugh off, but only mustered a nervous chuckle for. It was hard to find something like that funny anymore.

Anthony smiled when he saw Mutt in the front row. "Hey man," he headed towards the empty seat beside his friend, "You're looking good for…"

"For a dead guy?"

The word had caught Anthony off-guard. He visibly shivered at the mention of it, but shrugged quickly to mask the reaction. "I was going to say a guy who's been in a car accident, but if that's how your life's been. It's good to see you up and around, buddy. You back in class now?"

Mutt shook his head. "Not yet."

Anthony dropped into the seat next to him. "Yeah, well, you better hurry your ass up, 'cuz I'm getting sick of doing your homework."

"You better be doing it well too. I don't want to come back and find out I'm failing."

Anthony gave him a look. "Dude - its medieval history. You can't fail this class."

"Well, you're right: I can't. You, on the other hand."

The punch to the shoulder made Mutt laugh this time. Anthony shared the sentiment.

"It's good to see you back, man."

"It's good to be back, man," he agreed.

The happiness of their reunion was short-lived, interrupted by the sharp sounds of heels crossing the marble floor of the theatre. Dark-eyed Susan waltzed into class after the crowd had dispersed, shoes clacking against the tile only to stop the moment she hit the steps.

It only took a second for Mutt to realize her black gaze was on him.

He stood up, well, pushed himself into a standing position at any rate. The action, no matter how innocuous, seemed to offend Susan to the very core. There she stood, one hand on her bag, the other against her throat, as if Mutt's very presence were strangling her and she was trying to alleviate the pressure.

"Susan…"

The sound of her name made her back away from him a step. The sharp click of her heel on the tile sent shock waves through the class and silenced the students sitting around them, calling their attention to the front.

Mutt tried to ignore the attention. His hand drifted towards his pocket to his comb. _Just a few strokes_, his fingers itched. _A few…_

He pulled his hand away and focused, straightening his chin. Susan was frozen in her place wearing a mixture of emotions on her face, none of them good. Her eyes narrowed and widened, unable to decide how his presence should make her feel or how other people should think she felt. 

Every inch of her body was easy to read, though. She was recoiling, putting as much distance between her and Mutt as she could manage without appearing more frightened than she already kind of did.

The reaction was entirely foreign to Mutt. He had only known Susan to be a ruthless bitch, never a drama queen, and certainly not a victim. This was a new low, even for her.

He forced these thoughts into the dark corners of his mind. He had one thing to do, one stupid thing, and he was damn well going to do it. "Susan," he began again, "I wanted to…"

He never got the chance to finish. With the clicking of heels and a flash of black, Susan fled the classroom.

* * *

Mutt had found himself in all types of pain since his accident. There was the pain of waking, the pain of sleeping, the pain of getting comfortable on various surfaces; the pain of moving, the pain of stopping, the pain of slowing down, the pain of speeding up, and just the general, steady burning pain that lingered alongside all of these, a friendly reminder that for the time being, he was always in a state of pain.

But the pain that came from trailing Susan as she bolted from Martin's class was among the worst pain he had ever experienced. It was a blinding, pulsating, ravaging force that left his right leg barely able to support his weight and his left leg in almost the same condition. How he managed to catch up with her at last, he had no idea, but when he finally did, he wasted no time in shouting, "STOP! For Christ's sake, stop!"

The whole situation became even more unbelievable when Susan actually did as she was told.

His victory was short-lived though. A bright flash of white light engulfed his vision and he was left staggering towards the nearest wall for support. The pain had caught up with him at long last and he was left gasping for every breath as the agony ate him alive.

"Christ," he spat as the attack began to subside. His vision slowly returned, revealing Susan standing in the hallway in much the same spot as she had been in before. Breathing heavily, he willed his body into a state of motion again to approach her, keeping a hand on the wall.

It took Mutt a moment to calm down enough to speak clearly. All the words working their way into his mouth were obscenities and insults, nothing productive in terms of an apology. Unfortunately, chasing her had worn away what was left of Mutt's patience, so he settled on the most harmless of the expletives to start.

"Just what the hell is your problem?"

Susan whipped her head around, peering at him from over her shoulder. Her black eyes were as glassy as oil and her crimson lips were puckered and sour. "Did you have something to say to me?"

"Your damn right I do!" he shouted. "Jesus – I came here to apologize for my language the other day."

"You mean a month ago?"

Mutt rolled his eyes. "Yes, a month ago."

Susan's sigh was one of partly stifled exasperation. "Is that all?"

The wind had been knocked clean out of him. Was that all? WAS THAT ALL!? She just led him on a wild goose chase through a good part of a building on a broken leg and she wanted to know if that was all?!  
Mutt's hands balled into fists and his jaw muscles tightened, but he still managed to spit out, "Yeah. That's…"

His breath caught in his chest, words lodged in his throat. Beyond the doors at the end of the corridor, through the window, he saw something hovering; an inky black silhouette scarring the picture perfect cerulean sky above.

_"Henry…"_

"That's all," he muttered to Susan before marching past her as fast as his leg would carry him. "That's all."

The figure was frozen in his line of vision, human in shape but shadow in details, black as ink and oil. Mutt's whole body began to shiver at the sight of it, the mere thought of it unsettling, but he pushed himself forward anyways out of sheer morbid curiosity.

His leg gave a particularly painful throb, and for a moment he saw himself at the bus stop outside Bishop's Square staring into the park across the street. His stomach churned. Mutt shook himself free of the vision and fixed his gaze back on the figure, seeing him in perfect clarity for the first time in weeks.

Colin Williams.

Except…not. Pale. Thinner. Deader.

Well, un-deader. He was standing outside of Everett Hall, after all, a feat no corpse ever accomplished before and probably never would again.

_Unless it's not a corpse_, Mutt thought. _What if it's…_

_"Henry…_"

"No way," Mutt decided. No way Colin Williams was a ghost. Gritting his teeth, he plowed towards the door and managed to make it one foot outside before the figure whipped around and bolted.

"HEY!" he shouted. "STOP!"

But it didn't. The figure kept moving quickly across the courtyard. With a few gasps of breath, Mutt gave himself over to his adrenaline and began to jog unsteadily after the darkness in the distance, straight towards the busy intersection beyond.

* * *

The pain of following Susan paled in comparison to the pain of following the shadow, but at least Mutt found it easier to manage. He would pay for it when he stopped, of course, but that thought was far from his mind. He wasn't going to stop until the figure did, and something told him that wouldn't happen until he made it happen. Shaking and sweating, Mutt placed a hand on his thigh and pressed down on the muscle hard, hoping to distract himself from the throbbing agony of his calf.

It didn't work.

"STOP!" he shouted again at the figure. _Please, stop._

It didn't work either.

"Christ," Mutt spat. He raised a hand and wiped the tears from his eyes, trembling violently as his body begged for him to stop. _Just a few more steps_, he told himself, knowing full well it would take a lot more than a few to close the distance between him and the shadow, considering it was now at the side…walk…

Mutt's body came to a sudden halt, nearly pitching itself into the pavement out of sheer exhaustion. Somehow though, he managed to stay standing and see clearly, scanning the surrounding area for any sign of his inky black stepfather.

There wasn't one. Save for the occasional student making their way to and from Everett Hall, Mutt was alone, chasing specters.

He stared back at the road, back in Colin's direction. Cars glided effortlessly along the asphalt in two perfect streams of traffic. No human could have crossed that mess without making some kind of commotion.

_Or getting hit_, a darker voice warned him. His injured leg pounded in agreement.

Still, he stared anyways, squinting under the harsh rays of the midday sun to see the sidewalk across from the campus. Only an empty pathway greeted him from beyond the traffic, vacant and unoccupied, a sight that sent shivers down Mutt's spine as he realized there had been children there before, and a cameraman.

_No_, he corrected himself. _They were in Bishop's Park_.

Mutt's eyes widened abruptly as the memories of that day crashed down upon him. He could see it all as if it were happening right before his eyes. Children were racing through the playground. A camera flashed once…no, twice. And standing within the chaos staring at him was Colin Williams.

"Dad," he said aloud, and took a step forward.

_"Henry,_" Colin's voice beckoned, urgently this time. Despite the agony, Mutt obeyed it and took another step, foot brushing the curb and inching dangerously close to the passing cars.

_"Henry…"_

He took another step.

* * *

**So, thanks again for all the hits! Ummm...happy reading?**


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of George Lucas, Stephen Spielberg, and their affiliates at Lucasfilm and Paramount. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: While recovering from a horrific car accident, Mutt is haunted by the form of his late stepfather Colin Williams. His investigation into the events surrounding his father's demise leads him to discover the dark truth about Colin's time overseas and even darker truths about the Nazis and the nature of evil.

Author's Notes: Fanfiction seemed to be having problems with messaging right now, so my review responses may not have gone through today. Hopefully, they'll come through tomorrow, but if they don't, message me – I'll resend them. To be brief, thank you for reviewing! I appreciate all the feedback I get.

I was originally going to post a chapter for _Anatomy_ this time around, but the _Sleeping Dog_ plot bunnies kept bounding around my head and I just had to get Chapter 6 up. _Anatomy _should be up soon. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Six

Henry Sr. glanced at his watch and sighed. On any normal day in any normal month before the accident, his first reaction would have been sheer frustration over the amount of time it took for his son to accomplish simple tasks. Today, though, being an abnormal day in the abnormal month following the accident, Henry's first reaction was sheer guilt. The look in Mutt's eyes should have been a signal for him to just go home.

"I'm never going to get the hang of this," he muttered, and slumped back in his seat. Nazis? Easy. Wrath of God? No problem. Russians? Piece of cake. Taking good care of an injured son?

"Yeah, right," Henry scoffed. He pulled his keys from the ignition and got out of the car. _Better just find out where he got off to._

"HEY! STOP!"

A rush of panic surged through him as he realized just who was screaming. Henry's eyes flew to the corner of Everett Hall where the voice had originated from. The lone students trickling around the building gave him an excellent view of his son making his awkward, limping way towards the road.

"Oh for Christ's sake," Indy sighed, and broke into a run.

* * *

"MUTT!"

He didn't have any time to react. Something struck his left side head on, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending him flying to the right. His right leg twisted underneath him sending a fresh wave of heat and pain through his body that burned his vision to mottled shades of white and red. Thankfully, the brace held the limb together, but the feel of his left leg crashing against it from the front and the ground striking it from behind sent his limb ricocheting within the contraption. He was fairly certain he had screamed at least once by the time the ordeal ended. With the rest of the air knocked from his lungs, Mutt struck soft earth and for a few moments, was blessedly unconscious.

Consciousness came upon him with a throb of his heart and shot through his brain thickly, blood coagulated and sticky in his veins. He might have been thankful for his exhaustion, numbed to the pain as he was from his fatigue, but as it happened, he barely had the strength to think and settled instead on a brief moan and a flicker of his eyelids.

Indy's face hovered above. His lips were moving at a horrifying pace but no sound was coming out. Mutt blinked and sound returned by degrees: heartbeat first, pounding inside his skull, then his breath, slow and shaky from the blow, and then suddenly, the world rushed into his ears at break neck speed: the whish of wind against metal and glass, rubber over concrete; Indy's voice calling to him, 

begging him to give him a sign, that he would be all right but what the hell was he thinking? He nearly got himself killed.

_What was I thinking?_ Mutt sighed softly and let his eyes slide closed. _Walking out into traffic…again. I'm never going to live this one down._

He was hovering on the verge of unconsciousness again when a black figure flashed across his eyes. The brief vision sent the blood rushing from his skull back into his body, and suddenly Mutt had launched himself into the best sitting position he could manage, searching the road and sidewalk with widened eyes.  
Indy's hand was on his shoulder. "Take it easy, kid."

"Did you see him?" Mutt scrambled to get off the ground. His muscles burned, ached, and jerked wildly in protest, uncoordinated and limp from the previous strain. He forced them to comply. "Where is he? Where did he go?"

"Who? Where did who go?"

"Colin," liquid nitrogen flooded Indy's veins. "I saw him. I chased him. And then he…"

Mutt tried to get to his feet again. His father held him down. "Take it easy," he urged in a gruffer tone than he intended. Between seeing his son trying to take a step in traffic for a second time in a month and tackling said-son's still-healing body to the ground, Indy had pushed himself into a realm beyond worry. He could feel his insides twisting into knots at the very thought of Mutt being injured, least of all by car and least of least of all by him. "Give yourself a minute..."

Indy trailed off. His hand had brushed something on his son's leg, something wet and warm. Lifting his fingers from the limb, he found the faintest hints of red coating his knuckles and palm.

"Oh Christ," he hissed and looked at Mutt's still struggling form. Blood was beginning to collect in his jeans covering his right calf. Indy had torn open the wound.

He placed a hand on his son's shoulder and pushed him back to the ground. "Kid, you gotta keep still."

"He was here!"

"Okay, okay, fine, he was here. He's not here now though, and even if he is, you're bleeding. I've gotta get you to the hospital."

Not even the sight of his own blood was enough to shock Mutt out of desperation. The younger man pulled himself out of Indiana's grasp and started to rise. "He must have turned," Mutt decided, "At the last minute, he must have…"

"Would you just take it easy for a minute?"

"He was here, dad! Colin Williams – he was here. Now I've gotta find out where he went."

"Mutt," Indy said sternly, pinning Mutt by the ankles. The brace made easy work of detaining the young man's injured limb.

His son gave an indignant kick but couldn't compete with Indy's strength. "Let me go," Mutt ordered, but his father ignored him, forcing his feet even deeper into the grass. Mutt kicked harder.

"Let me go, dad."

"Not going to happen, kid."

Mutt gritted his teeth and glared menacingly. "Let. Me. Go."

Indy's expression remained impassive, but his grip never wavered. "Mutt," he said, trying to rouse the youth from his hysteria. "Mutt, look at me."

"I have to…"

"Mutt, you're bleeding. I need you to hold still," Indy prodded the wound on his leg lightly, hoping the pain would get through to his son. It softened his struggles, true enough, but Mutt was still pulling at the lawn, scrambling for a hand hold, desperate to break free.

Sighing, Indy grabbed hold of his son's ankles again and surrendered himself to the wait. The adrenaline would wear off eventually, he knew. Mutt's focus was already beginning to waver. His body was slouching closer and closer to the ground, muscles shaking from the strain. It wouldn't be long before he couldn't fight anymore, dead stepfather to chase or no.

Neurons were rapid-firing inside his skull, but they were shocking dead muscle, Mutt could feel it. The thick membrane shielding his pain receptors had disintegrated a lot faster than he anticipated and he was suddenly overcome. He fell back on the lawn and let his eyes close, spending a few minutes in absolute stillness just listening to the thunder of his heartbeat and wheezing sound of his breath as the pain washed over him in heated waves. He wanted to move; he _had_ to move. Yet, try as he might, he couldn't pull himself up anymore.

He felt his father's grip loosen and recede. With one final rush of strength, Mutt whipped onto his stomach, lifted himself onto his arms and...

…landed face-first in the grass.

"Adrenaline has left the building!" a deep voice announced inside his brain, and the screaming, ravaging pain swallowed him up completely. Mutt groaned and let it. He couldn't be bothered to care anymore. He let the waves wash him slowly away.

A hand on his shoulder prevented them from washing him away completely though. "Come on, Junior," his father urged, "Let's get back to the car."

"I have to find him," Mutt wanted to protest, but the best he could manage was a moan and a strange "Hrrrrr…" sound. He pulled his eyes open and found himself staring at his father's outstretched hand.

"Come on," Indy's voice was quieter now, softer. Mutt found himself warming to it, relaxing into it, though the growing urge to pass out could have also been to blame for his sudden docility. He reached an arm up as best he could and held fast to his father's wrist as he was lifted to his feet into a bright, endless white.

* * *

He told her it wasn't urgent, but how the hell wasn't it? This was the second time in a month their son had been in the hospital and the second time Marion had to do the Indy 500 through town to get to him. She double-parked in the lot and stormed into the emergency room with eyes only for her husband.

"He's fine," Jones told her by way of a greeting.

"I want to see him."

"They'll be out in a second."

"I want to see him."

And that was it. The conversation ended. Marion waltzed straight past him to the front desk, only to have Doctor Jenks ambush her midway.

"Mr. and Mrs. Jones…"

"Where's my son?" she demanded.

Jenks nodded sympathetically. "I understand how you feel…"

"Do you have children, Dr. Jenks?"

"No, but I hope…"

"Then you have no idea how I feel," Marion snapped. "Now where is my son?"

"We have him on a bed nearby. I assure you, Mrs. Jones, he's absolutely fine. We're merely giving him some fluids and some medication."

"Medication? Medication for what?"

Dr. Jenks sighed, a signal for her to calm down. Marion's glare only sharpened in response. _Do not tell me to calm down_, she spat mentally. _And if you even think of handing me a damn form…_

"Mr. and Mrs. Jones, how has Henry been sleeping at night?"

"Clearly not well if you're asking about it," she observed pointedly.

Another sigh, this time more pronounced. "I thought at first it was the excitement that had him so lethargic, but closer examination revealed Henry to be suffering the effects of exhaustion and sleep-deprivation. Even more alarming," Jenks flipped through several of the papers in his hands, "His vitals are all elevated. He's in a constant state of agitation."

Indy tried to control his breathing. Agitation was such a small word for what Mutt had been on the lawn of the school. Even in their worst disagreements, the kid had never fought so hard. He hadn't just been agitated; he had been frantic. Indy could only imagine what a bag of saline and some vitamins had done for his stamina.

Marion seemed to be thinking the same thing. She stared hard at Jenks trying to keep her temper under wraps. "Agitated?" she asked tersely.

Jenks nodded. "Agitated," he confirmed with a slight nod. "The nurses were forced to administer a mild sedative to keep him from running away."

Her heart crumbled inside her chest and Marion struggled to keep her expression still. She knew Mutt, every inch of him. She knew what made him happy, what made him sad; what made him angry, what made him afraid; and she knew the last thing he needed when he was any of these things was drugs that left him vulnerable. Her heart ached at the notion and her hands balled themselves into fists.

"What happens now?" Indy asked.

"Well, physically there's nothing more I can do for him here. I'm going to put him back on bed rest for a few days to give his leg some time to heal, and I'm also going to prescribe some anti-anxiety medication and mild tranquilizers for sleeping, but otherwise, your welcome to take him home as soon as his IV is empty."

It took every ounce of strength Marion had left for her to ask, "What about mentally?"

Dr. Jenks shook his head. "I'm afraid that's not my area of expertise."

"But if it were?" the question had formed itself out of thin air, and despite her inclinations, Marion could not beat herself up for asking it. Considering the month they had been having, it seemed perfectly legitimate. "What would you say?"

The doctor sighed again, searching for the answer on the floor. When he lifted his eyes, neither Marion nor Indy liked what they saw.

"I would say that the trauma your son has experienced is clearly affecting him," Jenks said softly. "I would say that this is a perfectly normal reaction and that he's going to pull though. But I would recommend he start seeing someone, perhaps not immediately, but definitely soon."

The silence thickened. No one in the trio moved or spoke. Jenks' admission had made words impossible at that moment. Marion felt lost in her own personal hell as the weight of his recommendation sank down upon her shoulders. All her worry for Mutt's physical well-being had been a waste of time. How could she had been so blind?"

"Thank you," Indy managed, though wasn't quite sure how he did so. The words had arisen, no doubt, from the same place as Marion's question, from the autopilot inside his brain that relied on the obvious in unfamiliar or terrifying situations. _And this certainly qualifies_, he thought, reaching to Marion's shoulder. She trembled lightly under his fingertips, holding herself in one piece, but just barely.

Jenks changed gears before the silence could get any worse. "He's behind that room on the left when you're ready," he pointed to the closest door. "Just call a nurse when the saline empties and we'll get him discharged."

Indy nodded another thanks and watched as the doctor left. Marion lingered under his hand only a moment longer before marching off to the room, leaving her husband standing by the admitting desk in her wake.

* * *

The shadows on the floor of the room all looked like people, especially when Mutt let his eyelids droop and his vision blur out of focus. There was a mom-shaped shadow by the window cast by the curtains and a dad-shaped shadow from the valence. They were balanced together in a perfect right angle with Indy growing out of Marion's forehead like an oddly shaped tumour, his distinguished profile stretching and condensing the longer Mutt stared at it.

Chloe could be found on the floor by the bed, forged by the blankets bunched around his thighs from when he tried to make his escape. She would appreciate the sentiment, no doubt, considering he had created the likeness of her silhouette in his failed attempt at escape. The whole thing read like an adventure novel in his head, and if there was one thing Chloe loved, it was a good adventure novel.

He lifted his gaze with a sigh though, and not because Chloe wasn't there to tell the story to. The light from the overhead lamp struck the pillows under his head, creating a sharp, angular shadow looming over the fluid shape of Chloe underneath. Mutt didn't have to allow his eyes to blue to know who this shadow was, not with the darkness pooling within it or the jagged edges it drew across the floor. There was Susan Walsh staring at him from the floor; all-dark, all-the-time Susan glaring at him in the hall demanding, "Is that all?"

"Yeah," he murmured, and turned away from her, "That's all."

Colin Williams looked down on him from overhead.

Mutt snapped immediately awake.

"Hey, hey," his mother's hand was on his shoulder in and instant. "It's just me, just me."

The strength in his body left him just as quickly as it appeared. Mutt dropped back onto the bed, folding his arms weakly over his chest as he did so to keep himself from shivering. They had taken his jacket when he came in, and now, with the cold saline flooding his veins, he was beginning to shake fiercely.

"Honey, are you cold?"

He couldn't even nod. Marion understood without being told though. She tugged the blankets free from his legs and wrapped him in it, tucking in the edges to keep him covered.

Mutt's stomach tied itself into knots. "I have to go," he mumbled, but found himself sinking back into the pillows involuntarily.

"You need to rest, sweetie."

"He was there, mom."

"He'll be there later," she assured him, running a hand through his hair. "Just rest. Just rest…"

A few breaths were all it took for Mutt to sink back into a dose. Marion released a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding and continued to run her fingers through his hair.

She knew Jones was in the room before he placed a hand on her shoulder. "What happened today?" she asked quietly.

Indy gave her a few pats on the shoulder. "He saw Colin again. I caught him just as he was about to walk into traffic again."

Marion choked on her next breath. "Jesus…" she whispered as the tears crawled down her cheeks. She wiped them away hurriedly, shaking her head in disbelief. "Well, what is this? Is this stress? Is this a phase? Is this…is he...oh God, Jones, you don't think he's…"

"I think he's had a hell of a month," Indy soothed her. "I think we've all had a hell of a month. And I think we just need to see where it goes right now."

"I don't think I can do that," she said.

Indy shook his head. "Yeah," he sighed, "Me neither."

* * *

**Happy reading all! Thanks again for the reviews!**


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Stephen Spielberg, George Lucas, and their marvelous affiliates at Paramount and Lucasfilm. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: While recovering from a horrific car accident, Mutt is haunted by the form of his late stepfather Colin Williams. His investigation into the events surrounding his father's demise leads him to discover the dark truths about Nazism and the nature of evil.

Author's Notes: Despite my insistence that I edit my own work, this chapter owes its perfection to another. I thank you most sincerely for your work and truly appreciate it.

Unfortunately, this will be my last update for the week as I am headed out of town the day after tomorrow and can almost guarantee that I won't have anything written by that time. However, I'm still accessible by PM and e-mail for those who wish to chat. Otherwise, enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Seven

Seven days.

Seven days spent walking on eggshells. Seven days spent under rigid schedule. Seven days spent worrying that the next step and the next breath might send you seven days back when your son hardly recognized your face or knew your name, hell, any name aside from that of his dead stepfather.

"Seven days spent going crazy," Marion muttered, before adding mentally, "And for the first time this month, Colin Williams isn't to blame."

There were three new prescriptions to have filled when they left the hospital, not to mention the laundry list of precautions Jenks laid out for them. Mutt was back on bed rest until the end of the week at least, possibly longer. His entire day was set to a schedule. "No surprises and no stressors," Jenks warned them. Meals and medications were administered at the same time each day, but nothing else was to be forced on the younger man, nothing expected. He simply needed to heal.

"Just what the hell does he think we've been doing for the past five weeks?" she demanded after arriving home from the hospital the night of the incident. "What does he think we've been pushing our son to have strange, suicidal visions?"

"Would you keep your voice down?" Indy asked her. Though Mutt was upstairs and in bed, he hadn't been sleeping when they left him, still making half-attempts at escape while trapped in his chemical haze; raised voices might strengthen his resolve.

"Well what, Indy? If he's not crazy, then what are we doing wrong?"

"He's not crazy."

But the answer sounded like a lie, even to him.

For the remainder of the week, they refrained from ever using the word 'crazy' in the house. It and all terms synonymous with it were obliterated from the household. Euphemisms were applied to everything. Mutt's first step into oncoming traffic was known as 'the accident'; his second: 'the incident.' Jenks's suggestion about seeking psychological help was referred to as 'the news.'

As for Colin Williams… Well, he was simply omitted from conversation altogether. Marion hid all her old photo albums in the garden shed along with all the other documents and memorabilia leftover from the war. While Mutt slept off the tranquilizer from his most recent hospital excursion, she had gone through his room from top to bottom removing anything that even suggested Colin Williams. She searched every hiding space, flipped through every book, rifled through every drawer, patted down every nook and cranny. When at last she couldn't bear to look anymore, Marion sat on the edge of her son's bed and watched him sleep, her eyes burning with the single word, "Why?"

Thankfully, seven days later, things finally felt like they were getting back to normal. Mutt was up and around again, and while he was still caught in a daze from his current drug regimen, he made no attempts to go looking for his stepfather. Indy returned to work at the end of the previous week after several desperate phone calls from Catherine and several more reassurances from Marion that things would be fine. After the blessedly stress-free weekend, even Marion had to admit that things were finally getting back under control.

_Maybe this has been just a bad month_, she thought with a sigh. _Maybe he won't need to see anybody about this._

The sound of the front door roused her from her reverie. Marion ran her hands over her face and through her hair, taking a few deep breaths as Indy stepped inside the house. When she had settled somewhat, she turned and walked to the open archway facing the foyer.

Indy stopped dead when he saw her, though how he managed to, she'd never know. He was carrying so many bags and boxes, he looked like he was about to fall over. Yet somehow, the second his eyes fell upon her, he held himself as steady as a stone, taking a moment to just look at her, and always as if he was looking at her for the first time.

"Hey," he finally said.

Marion shifted against the doorframe, crossing her arms casually over her chest. "Hey yourself. You want some help?"

"Ah…" he nearly lost several of the boxes, but managed to keep a grip on them. "No, no, I think I'm okay."

She rolled her eyes and walked towards him.

"Marion, please, I'm fine."

"Would you just let me help you?" she yanked several of the boxes from his arms, surprised but not overwhelmed by how heavy they were. "What is all this, Jones? Not more baking."

"The first round of graduate thesis papers," Indy replied with a slight groan.

"You mean there's going to be more?"

"Not if I fail the rest of them there won't be."

Marion smiled and laughed softly at that one. She doubted anyone in the house had even mustered a smile the week before, and had half-believed no one ever would again. If Jones was making a joke, no matter how light and dry it was, things were definitely returning to normal.

She set the boxes on the floor by the stairs in a neat pile, and then cleared the way for Indy to do the same. He set them atop the stack rather unceremoniously, tempted to give them an irritated kick for all the trouble they caused. His teaching assistants had already graded each of them. Why on earth did he have to approve the final grade when it had already been assigned by a perfectly competent graduate student?

Indy cast a glance back at Marion and let his frustration dissipate. She looked tired. She looked unhinged. She looked like a woman who had seen and done too much in too short a time.

_Haven't we all_, he thought with a sigh. _Haven't we all_.

"Hey," he said again.

Marion smiled back. "Hey yourself."

They let the earth pass them by for a moment. They had spent too much of the past weeks trying to keep up. They were alone in the foyer of their house, their son was alive, and while it wasn't idyllic life they had expected, it would have to do. Indy leaned over and kissed his wife, savouring every precious second that he didn't have to think about the universe at large and its brutal nature.

"How is he?" Indy finally managed to ask as they walked into the kitchen.

Marion sighed and nodded a little. "He's better, I guess. I mean he's no more different than he was yesterday or the day before, which I suppose is an improvement."

"He's taking his medication?"

"Everyday," she replied. "I think he's just trying to finish the bottle. We only had to get that prescription filled once."

"How's he sleeping?"

Indy felt Marion stiffen at the question. _Bad choice of words, Jones_, he chastised himself, and opened his mouth to retract the statement only to find himself a millisecond too late.

"How isn't he sleeping?" she scoffed. "Jesus, Jones, that's all he does."

"Marion…"

She quickened her pace, storming into the kitchen. Indy kept as much distance as he thought necessary. Marion didn't need to be touched or coddled at this moment. That being said, she didn't need to be alone either. Indy took up his post at the door to the hall standing as close to the frame as he could without leaning on it. The less he looked like he was about to rush to her side, the better.

Marion stood for a moment in the center of the room. She looked lost and confused, like she had never seen the place before. This was someone else's room she was standing in, someone else's life interrupted. Her own son was home and healthy and safe and sane.

_Oh please let him be sane,_ she begged silently.

Running her hands over her face, she found her center. A look of recognition descended upon her face and she was calm, coping, and content. Things were getting better, and they would continue to do so.

She turned to face Indy again, strength returning. "He's sleeping," she assured him. "If he's doing anything, he's sleeping."

* * *

It was alive, Mutt realized. It was alive!

He saw the body twitch beneath the sterile blanket, heard it grunt and groan against its bonds. Outside, the storm raged on, but here, inside his sanctuary, the world had gone still and silent save for the soft sounds of life.

"You thought we killed him, ja?" a voice asked. It took Mutt a moment to understand the English beneath the thick German accent. "You thought we took your father from you, didn't you? But we didn't. Not your father."

"He's not my father," Mutt mumbled, but the point seemed so meaningless now. Once upon a time, it had meant something: in the jungle, at the wedding, during the first night in his real father's house. But what could it possibly mean here? Colin Williams had been there; perhaps not in body but certainly in spirit. Where had Indiana been?

The creature twitched again on the table. Mutt took a tentative step towards it. Fear made his heart race in his chest, but he could not go back. He had come so far. He could not turn away now.

He took another step toward it. Sweat poured from his body in torrents and he was shaking violently. The nearer he got, the stronger the urge to run became, yet fear froze him and held his course as the voice carried on behind him, praying in German.

A memory manifested itself from the darkness of his mind, a memory of comfort and warmth; of exhilarating rapture and sensual suspense. Chloe Weaver pinned beneath him and pressed beside him, a willing prisoner of his long awkward limbs. He felt her fingers trail through his hair and down his cheek, moving with the slow melodic flow of her voice as she read:

"'It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw…'"

Mutt waited. He waited with bated breath. Oxley had read him Shelley once before, but had done so in a single evening, so rapt with love for the written word he couldn't bring himself to stop. Mutt had been in as much suspense then as he was now, waiting anxiously for Chloe to continue.

"What did he see?" he asked softly.

Chloe's hand smoothed out over his head. She took a breath and continued.

"'I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open…'"

The body on the table stopped moving in front of him. Mutt dared one more step. The storm was simmering quietly in the distance, and Chloe's voice broke into two: one, her own melodic speech, the other, the German's.

"'It breathed hard.'"

Ragged breath issued forth from beneath the blanket. Mutt felt the blood drain out of his skull.

"'…and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.'"

The wind returned with a vengeance, causing the whole room to shake. A crack of lightning and a rumble of thunder shattered the windows, bringing the gale and rain into the room.

Mutt squinted through the driving rain. He could see the blanket rippling, rising at the edges teasingly. "No," he tried to pull himself away. "No, no…"

With a snap of fabric, the blanket was thrown aside, revealing the body of a man, both very dead and very alive at the same time. Stitches lined his flesh like a patchwork quilt, holding him together for some infernal purpose or another.

It didn't move. Neither did Mutt. He was too busy staring at the creature's face, the creature's heartbreakingly familiar face.

Undead face muscles twitched, and suddenly the creature's eyes were on Mutt, wide and staring, piercing the young man straight to the soul.

_"Henry_…" the creature whispered with undead lungs.

Mutt felt his body go cold. He tried to speak but couldn't. There was only one word to say and he couldn't even manage that.

_Dad_.

"Beautiful," the German was smiling as he spoke, "Wouldn't you say?"

* * *

Mutt jerked out of sleep, temporarily disoriented. It was bright. It was cool. It was calm. Where the hell was he?

Blinking frantically, his sight finally returned and, exhausted, he fell back into his seat. He was sitting on the back deck in one of the lounge chairs, exactly where he had been sitting…how many hours ago was it now? Two? Three? Time passed in large increments nowadays. He would close his eyes for a few minutes and open them hours later feeling hungry, nauseous, and wasted, side-effects of all four –count 'em: four – medications he was currently on.

He swallowed thickly several times and suppressed the urge to moan. Everyone kept saying he was doing so much better, but wasn't this a step back? Hell, wasn't this several steps back? Three weeks ago he'd been able to form coherent thoughts. Now, the nightmares were back, this time with more disturbing visuals for him to enjoy.

Heavy footsteps appeared on the deck behind him. He recognized the sound. Not ominous, cautious; they were heavy enough to make a sound, to warn him instead of worry him. Mutt knew that because of whom the footsteps belonged to. One only heard Indiana Jones's approach when he wanted to be heard.

Mutt immediately reached for his comb and ran it through his hair several times. The action calmed him and helped him focus. Swiping a hand across his face, he imagined he looked almost half-human by the time Indy placed a hand softly on his shoulder, another recently developed greeting, before their elder man eased himself into the chair next to his.

"How you doing, kid?" he asked.

Mutt shrugged, and then furrowed his brow, confused. "You home early?"

"Not quite," Indy shook his head a little. "5:15 last time I looked."

"5:15? You mean in the evening?" His father nodded. Mutt sank back into the chair and closed his eyes. _Christ_, he made a fist; he had been asleep for almost three hours.

Had he the time to think about it, Indy might have marveled at how quickly he was able to read his son nowadays. The mysteries of Mutt's body language were slowly unraveling in his mind, a blessing and a curse. While he could now translate most of what Mutt left unspoken, he was also beginning to understand why Marion became so frustrated with him sometimes. It was easy to tell when he was hiding something, but Mutt was stubborn enough to keep it hidden no matter what the cost.

At that moment though, it was easy to see that something not-quite-so-hidden was nagging Mutt's senses. "You okay?" Indy asked.

"I just lost three hours," Mutt replied glumly.

"You're healing, kid. You're bound to sleep a lot."

"I'm healed, pops. It's those damn pills. I've lost like three days so far, and counting."

"It's only a few more days," Indy reassured him. "And you haven't missed out on much."

_Except your mother and me worrying to death. No big deal_.

"Yeah, but I still missed it. I've been missing everything."

Indy couldn't argue with him there. They were back at the beginning again in terms of Mutt's state of mind.

"This gets better," he said.

"Yeah?" Mutt demanded. "When?"

The word hung in the air between them, illusive and solitary. _When indeed?_ Indy thought to himself. His mind was already formulating all the ways to end the statement. _When the pills run out? When he goes back to school? When he tries to step in front of traffic again?_

He patted Mutt's shoulder. For now, it was the best he could do.

The door opened to the deck and Marion emerged from the kitchen. Her face was a mixture of emotions, some overwhelming happy and some painfully reluctant.

"Marion?" Indy asked. He hadn't just become the emotional cornerstone for the house, had he?

His wife laughed lightly. "Evelyn Walter just called. Apparently, she's moved her baby shower up from Friday to tonight."

"Tonight?" Indy asked. Marion nodded curtly. Now he was beginning to understand. Evelyn Walter was the young, bubbly wife of one of Henry's professors who, after meeting Marion for five minutes, determined that they should be the best of friends. While Marion was not wholly opposed to the idea, having very few acquaintances in the new community let alone friends, the relationship was enough to drive her to drink sometimes, right now being a prime example.

"I told her I couldn't make it," Marion rolled her eyes. "I mean can you believe it? Moving up a baby shower because she's convinced she's due this Saturday? She still has at least two weeks left."

"Why can't you make it, mom?" Mutt asked. He already knew the reason. He was wondering how she would word it though.

"I haven't even started dinner," she said.

"We could order out," Indy suggested.

"The house is a mess."

"No it isn't," Mutt replied.

Marion sighed. She didn't have any other excuses except the truth.

"I just don't think…I mean with everything that's happened…"

The silence that fell upon them was so thick you could have cut it with a knife or welted it with a bullwhip. It was absolutely suffocating for each Jones: Marion because it showed her distrust in her own son; Indy because he half-agreed with her; and Mutt because he couldn't blame them for worrying but wanted to, Lord he wanted to.

But Indy would be damned if he let this fall apart now. "The Walter's house is only four blocks and a phone call away, Marion. You can be there in back in fifteen minutes."

She stared at him. _Trust me_, his eyes assured her. _He's going to be fine_.

The steady gaze gave Marion the strength to nod. "All right," she said, and gave Indy a look of her own, one that clearly told him all the plagues she had planned for the world if anything else happened to her son.

_Don't you leave him alone, Indy_, her eyes pleaded.

* * *

The second time Mutt woke up, it was twilight, and he was surprisingly calm. He hadn't slept long enough to dream this time and hadn't been agitated enough to have a nightmare. No, this was a nice sleep, a good sleep, the type of sleep a guy could get used to.

Dinner was still left lying on the coffee table. Mutt knew it wouldn't get cleaned up until mom pulled into the driveway. Not that it would take long to do. They'd settled on burgers instead of pizza. All Indy had to do was crumple everything into a ball and toss it in the trash.

With a sigh, Mutt eased himself back onto the couch. He had reached his nirvana again: stomach settled, mind at ease, ready to sleep naturally instead of chemically. It was a nice feeling, a good high he could get used to, something to look forward to in the near future, or so he hoped.

He was on the verge of sleep again when he heard the knock on the door. For a moment, Mutt was wide awake, but as he convinced himself that Indy would answer, he began to drift again. The strange firework display against his closed lids was hypnotic and he gladly sank into the warm…comforting…dark...

The knocking was back, louder this time, followed by some harsh whispers. Mutt could hear the near silent consonants cutting through the walls of the house, dragging him back into consciousness. He rubbed a hand over his face and lifted himself from the couch. "Yeah," he said, wincing from the pain shooting up his leg as he stood. The knocking continued. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming."

He was just a few feet from the door when the knocking stopped. Footsteps danced eagerly outside the door and through the crack in the blinds, Mutt saw two figures caught in a silent struggle. The taller of the two finally won and threw the other back from the door.

"Great," he spat, and marched the rest of the way to the door. Grabbing the handle, he swung it open so quickly neither of them had time to run. "You guys wanna tell me…"

Mutt's whole body recoiled at the sight. He staggered backwards, shaking like a leaf as the light from the kitchen fell across the faces of the man, if he could be called that given his current state. The lingering scent of old death assaulted Mutt's nostrils, but he didn't notice. He couldn't notice anything but the face of the figure, the one standing directly in front of him in the doorway.

The one with Colin Williams's face.

* * *

**Have a great weekend everybody!**


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Stephen Spielberg, George Lucas, and their affiliates at Paramount and Lucasfilm. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: While recovering from a horrific car accident, Mutt is haunted by the form of his late stepfather Colin Williams. His investigation into the events surrounding his father's demise leads him to discover the dark truth about Colin's time overseas and even darker truths about the Nazis and the nature of evil.

Acknowledgements: To my dear beta, who found herself a little overwhelmed when I sent her this chapter. I'm sorry things aren't going as smoothly as they should right now. I do appreciate all your corrections, and your asides made my revisions much more enjoyable. I hope everything has settled in your life. Thank you very, very much!

Author's Notes: Alright – this chapter is evil! It took quite a lot to complete. I very rarely have to push so hard on something I a) am passionate about and b) have plotted out from beginning to end. Why this chapter proved so frustrating, I'll have no idea. I think it has something to do with the ending. Rest assured, the remainder of the story should come quickly, unless I've just jinxed myself with this statement, in which case I am so, so screwed.

But that's enough about me. Onward!

* * *

Chapter Eight

_This isn't real_, Mutt told himself. _This is just another nightmare. Dr. Frankenstein and all that crap. Any second now the white rabbit's gonna come hopping around the corner complaining about being late_.

An eternity passed. Headlights danced on the road, blackening Colin's figure. Mutt shut his eyes tight against the glare, ignoring the image of the dead man's silhouette against his closed lids, and waited for the light to pass before opening them again. He expected the porch to be empty. He expected to find himself back on the couch, face shoved into sofa cushions as his leg screamed and throbbed bloody murder.

But he expected wrong. Colin Williams was still in front of him, still staring holes through Mutt's skin and into his soul. The younger man took another stunned step backwards, stumbling a little on his injured leg. "It can't be…" he stammered, and shut his mouth tightly. When he heard himself whimpering, he forced himself to speak again. "You're not real."

Colin's mouth dropped open in sudden epiphany. "Henry," he breathed, and tilted his head to the side sadly. "My Henry?"

Bile rose hard and fast into Mutt's throat. He clapped a hand over his mouth to hold it back. The sudden sting of his palm against his skin forced the tears from the corners of his eyes onto, and he felt the hot liquid stream down his cheeks in testament to the sight he saw before him.

"No," Mutt breathed and shook his head. Another whimper escaped his mouth. "No, you can't be real."

"Mutt?" a voice asked from behind him. Footsteps started down the stairs. "Mutt, is everything all right?"

If there had been any colour in Colin's face, it would have drained in that moment. The thousand or so expressions on his face loosened, leaving his undead skin slack and hanging from his bones. He breathed his son's name one more time before turning, and in a blur of blackness, tore off into the night at the heels of his companion.

"NO!" Mutt shouted. He staggered towards the door as quickly as he could on sleep-stiffened joints. "NO! COME BACK!"

"MUTT!" Indy called.

But the adrenaline had already surged into the younger man's veins, and he sprang forward with strength well beyond his own. Without his brace, he was left limping as quickly as he could across the moist grass, wincing with every step as the pain returned. Yet Mutt maintained his pace somehow, locking his gaze on the shadows in the distance. He barely heard the thunder of footsteps on the stairs behind him beyond the pounding of his heart in his chest. His vision tunneled, leaving him with only one sight and mind. All he saw was Colin. All he heard was Colin. All he could think and breathe was Colin.

"WAIT!" he shouted as the figures reached the edge of the property, passing through the dense thicket of trees separating the Jones's house from the rest of the world. The silhouettes bled into one another, obscuring Colin and his companion from view, and left Mutt scrambling through the branches to find them.

Thick, woody tendrils pressed down tightly against his skin, biting his flesh as he flailed about in their grasp. His eyes darted back and forth from the lawn to the brush to the sky and back round again, searching for Colin's shape in the darkness. The trees obstructed his vision, though, as did their shadows. Mutt's constant thrashing sent blackened shapes dancing before his eyes and every one of them looked like Colin.

He pushed forward through the darkness despite the growing agony in his leg. The adrenaline surge was beginning to wane, and he was becoming aware of the fire burning below his knee, waiting impatiently to pounce upon him and burn all the way up his thigh. Still, he pressed on, one foot in front of the other through the branches, gritting his teeth against the fury of his injury.

Until his foot caught on the roots, that is, and twisted beneath him. He felt the stitches holding his skin together pull taut, threatening to break. White light engulfed his vision, then red, and by the time he realized the strength had left his legs, Mutt was already on the ground, aching and stinging from the trees' assault during his descent.

He lifted his face from the ground, momentarily stunned from the blow of the earth against his skull. He blinked slowly to clear his vision once, twice, three times, and finally saw them, two shadows racing off into the night. Squinting his eyes a little to focus, he saw the one with Colin's profile casting long, hesitant glances over his shoulder every few paces, and Mutt felt himself gripped by a chill when he realized his father's gaze was resting on him.

"Dad," he lifted himself to his arms and tried to rise. "Dad!"

A hand fell upon his shoulder, and Mutt nearly jumped out of his own skin. He twisted in the grasp, inadvertently causing his foot to catch on the roots and send him spiraling into senseless oblivion.

Somewhere, he felt his father lift him from the earth and reassure him, "I've got you."

* * *

Mutt regained consciousness just as Indy deposited him on the couch in the living room.

"I have to go," he stated immediately upon awakening, and lunged from the elder man's hands towards the door.

"Hey," Indy readjusted his grip instead of tightening it, fearful he might break something. The little bulk Mutt had collected on his young body seemed to have melted in those past weeks. Indiana could count the boy's ribs with his fingers, see the hollow pools of the youngster's collar bone under his shirt, and damn near recoiled when Mutt's spine rose up like spindles as the young man's body bucked madly for release.

As tenderly as Indy could manage, he eased the younger man into a sitting position on the couch. "Easy, son. Easy. Just take it easy."

"He's right outside!" Mutt protested and tried to stand. The hand Indy brought to rest on his son's shoulder might have been gentle, but it may as well have been attached to a wall. Indy was an immovable force in front of him. "Let me go."  
"Here we go again," Indiana sighed, bracing himself. Mutt struggled against the grip.

"Dad – please! He's outside right now!"

"Who?"

"Colin Williams. He was standing right on our porch. He knocked on the door and everything. He was right here!"

"Well, he ain't there now, kid."

"Cuz he took off down the street. Now I gotta go find him. Let go of me!"

"HEY!" Indy barked, hoping his tone might break through to the kid. It did, but only slightly. Mutt's struggles became less frequent at any rate. Getting his frustration back under control, Indiana tried speaking calmly again. "Just take it easy, alright?"

"He was right…"

"Mutt."

The name brought the younger man's mind to attention. The fog of hysteria surrounding him seemed to clear a little, and Mutt felt waves of fatigue wash over him, followed by the sensation of heat pulsating just below his knee.

"Just take it easy, alright?"

Easy…his body liked the sound of that, and even though his brain vehemently disagreed, Mutt was willing to take a moment just to breathe.

Indy's heart rate began to slow at last. Jesus, the kid had damn near given him a heart attack; first by taking off into the night, then by twisting that leg of his again, and then passing out? _If I wasn't grey already…_he sighed. _You're going to have me bald by 70, kid, I just know it._

And Marion – Christ, he hadn't even thought about Marion. She was going to throttle him when she found out what happened.

"He was here," Mutt declared, drawing Indy out of his reverie. The younger man shook his head and sighed. "He was right here. I saw him standing right there. I saw him standing…"

His breath caught in his throat. His heart skipped a beat. Indy watched as the colour drained from his son's face at a horrifying pace. "Mutt?" he asked, but this time the boy didn't respond. His eyes were glazed and unfocused, staring through the opposite wall as the realization dawned on him that this wasn't the first time he had seen his father standing in front of him.

"Bishop's Park…" Mutt muttered and managed a small gasp of air. A cold chill fell upon him. For weeks, he had been watching it happen, over and over, and for weeks he had told himself they were just nightmares, side-effects of the accident. But now he knew, in his heart of hearts, that this wasn't the first time Colin Williams had come to him, and this wasn't the first time he had injured himself in pursuit.

"Oh God…oh my God…" his voice cracked. A small sob emerged from his throat, a strangled plea for the images in his mind to be false. There was Colin Williams standing amidst the crowd at Bishop's Park. There he was at the college beyond the doors to Everett Hall. There he was at the hospital, floating above him like a psychopomp, and in his bedroom. He was everywhere and nowhere, and no one else had seen or heard him besides Mutt.

"Mutt," Indy's hands tightened slightly on the boy's shoulders, but he didn't feel them. "Mutt?"

The younger man put his hands to his mouth to hold back all the things working their way up his throat. He felt a hot rush of bile rising from his stomach followed by the chill of fear descending upon him once more, causing a scream to build within him that begged for release.

_"I thought I just saw my dad."_

Mutt's breathing was coming in short gasps. Sweat collected on his brow at an alarming rate.

_"Your dad? I thought he was in a meeting with Martin?"_

He lifted his eyes to Indy's. His breath caught in his throat and his heart stopped dead in his chest.

_"Not that dad."_

And then, suddenly, Mutt remembered everything. He remembered the accident. He remembered the pain. He remembered the ether in the operating room sending him to sleep as Colin floated above him. He remembered nearly walking into traffic again outside of Everett Hall, remembered the panic and the fury at not being able to run.

_But to run after what?_ a voice inside him asked. _Colin Williams is dead. He's been dead for almost fifteen years now. _

"Oh, God," he let out another choked sob. "Oh, my God, I'm going crazy."

"You're not going crazy."

"I am _crazy._" Mutt's whole body began to shake with the admission as if he had caught a chill. He turned his gaze to Indiana. "This can't be real, right? None of this is real?"

A shiver ran down the elder Jones's spine. Mutt stared at him through eyes as wide as saucers, blood shot and tearful with pure, unadulterated desperation. He was a man on the edge losing his balance. A single breath could have pushed him over the limit and sent him to shatter on the ground below.

Indy pulled himself together and lowered himself to his son's level. "Mutt, I want you to listen to me: you are not crazy."

"The hell I'm not!" Mutt sprang up from the couch onto unsteady feet. Indy pulled back, giving his son the space to move, to breathe. Mutt's whole body was shaking violently, and his skin was deathly pale. Crowding him would only serve to intensify his panic, and that was the very last thing Indy wanted to do.

Mutt folded his arms across his chest. Pain was building within his overtaxed lungs, and for a brief moment, he thought he might be having a heart attack. He swallowed back another sob, bottom lip quivering as he gritted his teeth. Still, tears flowed freely down his cheeks, and the voice in his head was growing louder.

_You've lost it._

He pressed his hands against his ears and groaned. "God…I'm not…I know I'm not. I'm not crazy."

"I know," Indy told him. "Mutt, I know. I know you're not crazy."

"I saw him. He was here. He was right on our front porch. And he was at Bishop's Park and Everett Hall and he…he made me…" another sob emerged. "Jesus, _he_ did this to me!"

The younger man's next breath was nothing more than a stifled gasp. Indy inched forward.

"Mutt, I need you to calm down."

"He did this…"

"Henry."

"Don't call me that!" Mutt snapped. Images of Colin's silhouette flashed in his mind, each one whispering that name. "Don't you ever call me that!"

Indy raised his hands defensively and corrected himself. "Mutt – please. Sit down. You're not thinking straight right now."

"Oh no, I'm think I'm thinking straighter now than I have been for the past month. He was there, pops. He had to have been there! I saw him, just like I saw him outside just now."

"Alright."

"Alright? Don't give me alright. It's not alright. I have to find out why he's here, I have to find out…JESUS!"

"Mutt…" Indy took a step forward.

"Would you back off? Please! Just keep away from me!"

Defenses went up again. Indiana kept his distance, held himself back as Mutt worked himself out. The kid hadn't stopped shaking, but at least he was breathing now, full, deep, heavy breaths that sounded almost strangled as he got a handle on his emotions and found his thoughts dragging him out of his hysteria.

Running his trembling hands through his hair, Mutt found the strength to speak. "So maybe…so what if he's not here, but I'm not crazy – what then? I mean, different cultures got different stories, right? There's probably a hundred different reasons he's here. I mean…" Indy watched as Mutt's hands went through his hair again and stayed there, holding the long, greasy strands back, away from his face. The paleness of his skin had faded to a sickly gray colour, and even though he was standing still his body was still in motion, twitching and jerking like he was having a seizure. Hysteria had worked its way into every gesture, every move that the younger man made.

"I mean…there's other explanations, right?" Mutt asked. His voice was so tight, the words threatened to snap in the air. "There's other possibilities? There always is with this type of thing?"

Indy's stomach tied itself in knots. The desperation in Mutt's eyes, the desolate expression on his face...it was enough to make the elder Jones sick. He had never hated something as much as he did right then, least of all Colin Williams. The tautness of his muscles only allowed him to nod slightly in response to his son's question, a gesture that only seemed to confuse the younger man further, if that was possible.

"Well, there's gotta be something," Mutt said, taking several steps towards the door. Indy was about to protest when the kid about-faced and started moving in the other direction. He was pacing, not running, which came only as a small comfort to the good doctor. Running or pacing, Mutt was moving with a very noticeable limp.

"You should sit," Indy warned.

Mutt was too engrossed in his train of thought to listen. He exhaled heavily and crossed the room again, pulling his arms across his chest to control his shaking. His mind was on overdrive, reviewing every book he had ever read on the supernatural, every legend he had ever heard about the ethereal. He never realized how much he had learned until now. Even the most archaic reference emerged from the dark corners of his consciousness with stunning clarity. He tried to sort the information by relevance, but found it all too confusing and overwhelming for him. Where was he to begin when he didn't quite understand it all himself? Was Colin physical or metaphysical? Was he was a warning? Was he an apparition? Was he even really there? Or had that day in Bishop's Park been the first appearance of some psychoses preparing to reap havoc on his life? Mutt didn't know. All he knew was what he had seen had been real. It just had to be.

Something thick fell upon his back, and Mutt nearly jumped out of his own skin.

"Easy," Indy placed a hand against the boy's shoulder, holding the blanket in place. "Come on, kid, work with me here. Sit down, alright?"

Mutt wanted to mention that he wasn't exactly working with himself at that particular moment in time, but his mouth couldn't form the words, distracted by the numerous explanations forming within his mind. He allowed himself to be led back to the couch, let Indy push him down on it until he was sitting, and even accepted the glass of water his father produced seemingly from out of nowhere.

"Slow," the elder Jones urged him as he drank. "Nice and slow."

The intricate entanglement of thought began to diffuse in Mutt's brain. He relished the feel of the cold liquid as it passed down his throat and didn't even mind when it hit his stomach, feeling it leech out to his blood. All sensation seemed to echo his father's request: slow, nice and slow. That was fine enough for him.

Indy took the empty glass from him and set it on the side table. He patted Mutt's knee gently, staring at the floor instead of his son's face.

"I'm sorry, kid," he shook his head mournfully, finally meeting the younger man's stare. "I'm really sorry."

Mutt shook his head. "It's not your…"

He couldn't finish. His voice stopped midsentence, caught in a throat that had just become painfully dry.

And that's when he noticed that everything was spinning.

In an instant, the earth careened from its axis and fell, blurring the colours of the room. Light and shadow were smeared together before his eyes like acrylic paint under the hands of a child. Indy was below him and above him, rising and sinking, expanding and contracting. Mutt wanted to run again, to break out of the spell, but found his limbs too heavy to lift.

"What did you…?"

Again, he stopped, words dying in his throat. He couldn't bring his mind to focus. Everything felt light, airy, and empty. He was a balloon filled with helium, and he was floating away.

Mutt blinked. The back of his head struck the couch, his neck incapable of holding it up any longer. He felt Indiana's hand smooth over his kneecap again and thought he heard another whispered apology, though couldn't be sure. His eyelids sank again, and though he caught them, he knew it wouldn't be long before they fell for good. He could already feel his mind blackening, yielding to the slow pull of sleep…sleep…

"Pup…" his mother was above him. Her hands were running over his cheeks. "It's okay. It's okay. It's…o…kay…."

There was darkness after that, and then even that was gone.

* * *

**Happy reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Stephen Spielberg, George Lucas, and their wonderful affiliates are Paramount and Lucasfilm. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: While recovering from a horrific car accident, Mutt is haunted by the form of his late stepfather Colin Williams. His investigation into the events surrounding his father's demise leads him to discover the dark truth about Colin's time overseas and even darker truths about the Nazis and the nature of evil.

Author's Notes: At long last, it is finished. I apologize for the delay. Between school and writer's block, I felt like this chapter would never get finished, but after finding some time this weekend, I put the finishing touches on it, sent it off to my fabulous beta (who read through it in RECORD time - seriously, someone get Guinness on the line), and got it ready for posting. I hope you all enjoy it!

To my beta, who is so fabulous, thank you so much for plowing through this as quickly as you did. Your comments were truly appreciated. The early drafts of this chapter needed a lot of retouching. Without your keen eye for narrative and character, this installment would have reigned supreme as substandard tripe. For your comments, suggestions, and support, I thank you.

* * *

Chapter Nine

It was as if he had completely shut down inside. He could see, he could smell, he could taste, he could touch, but he couldn't really feel anything except the emptiness, and it felt cold to him. Lying there on the living room couch he knew, the second he opened his eyes, that the hollow sensation occupying his body was all there was to the world. Something had changed inside of him, but he couldn't quite put it into words.

Mutt took stock of his surroundings apathetically. Someone had lain him down on the couch and covered him with a blanket. Sunlight streamed through the window, painting the room a cheery shade of gold. The image was made all the cheerier by the sounds of birds singing, dogs barking, and children laughing merrily. Meanwhile, he was empty in utopia.

"I shouldn't have done it."

His father's voice drifted out of the kitchen. The tone it had taken on was unfamiliar to Mutt. Indy never sounded so mournful, so utterly ashamed.

"Well, there's nothing you can do about that now," Marion replied. Her voice was gentle despite its bluntness, and even Mutt - in all his apathetic glory - could feel himself falling into it, reassured.

For a moment, at least. The bitterness hit him quickly after that.

He sat up immediately and searched the room. Someone had put a glass of water on the end table nearby, along with his daily dose of pills. The sight was like a fan to the flame. Mutt felt his fury rise to a fever pitch. He threw the blanket from his legs and stood, barely giving himself the chance to wince as he put weight on his injured leg. Nabbing the glass and pills from the table, he stormed off to the kitchen.

Mutt moved so quickly neither Marion nor Indy noticed his presence. They were standing by the sink staring sightlessly out the window in silence. Marion had her arms wrapped around her husband from behind, the only form of comfort she had left to offer at that point in time.

The sight of them together…Mutt's insides churned. He slammed the glass and the pills onto the table, rousing them from their reverie. "Thought you'd give me a choice this time?" he demanded.

"Mutt," Marion sighed, releasing Indy from her grasp. She rounded the countertop and approached him.

"Stay away from me, Mom."

She stopped as he requested but still seemed to lean towards him, desperate to close the distance that was growing steadily between them both physically and emotionally.

"Honey," she said, "Mutt, I want you to listen to me. Last night…"

"Oh yeah, I'll tell you what happened last night: Daddio decided to slip me a little something. You dosed me. You dosed me! I can't believe you!"

For a moment, Mutt saw a pained expression cross Indy's face as the accusation struck him full force from across the room. It disappeared beneath his usual stoicism just as quickly as it appeared. "You were hysterical," his father replied. "What else was I supposed to do?"

"Well, you could have not drugged me. How's that for starters?"

Indy's temper flared. Apparently, he had taken the drugging as personally as his son had. "And have you take another jog around the block? I don't think so, kid. You think I didn't see the state your leg was in last night? You almost ripped your stitches! Again!"

"You had no God damn right!"

"Henry!" Marion snapped.

"And stop calling me that. Jesus!" Mutt shivered involuntarily. If the name hadn't been a bother before, it certainly was now. The image of Colin's heartbroken face flashed through his mind along with that name, nothing more than a whisper on a dead man's breath.

"Don't talk to your mother like that," Indy was moving around the counter now. "You wanna be mad at me? Go right ahead. But don't take this out on her."

"Fine," the younger man stated. He wrapped his arms around his chest, partly out of frustration and partly because his blood had gone cold. Suppressing his anxiety, Mutt focused on the anger instead. The thought of Indiana's betrayal made his blood boil, warming him to the core until his whole body felt like it was filled with hellfire.

The doorbell rang, breaking some of the tension. After a moment's hesitation, just long enough to ensure neither father nor son were going to make a move for the kitchen knives, Marion left to answer it.

Indy and Mutt didn't take their eyes off each other. It was the younger man who finally broke the silence.

"I can't believe you would do something like that."

Every syllable felt like a knife going through Indy's skin. The kid had forced the words out through teeth clenched so tightly the consonants were sharper than sword points, but that wasn't the only reason they had left a mark on him. He had watched Mutt submit to the drugs the night before; he had seen the look in the young man's eyes, the accusing stare that followed the initial shock of drug-induced lethargy. Even as Mutt's body went limp, Indy could feel his son's eyes upon him, boring into his soul with a look of such pure condemnation that the sensation would no doubt haunt him for the rest of his life.

Mutt's eyes narrowed on his father's face. His blood boiled anew. "You had no right to do that to me. None."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, sorry doesn't cut it. I mean, Christ – you followed the instructions of a crystal skull! A crystal, alien skull! I thought out of everybody, you'd have my back in this, not go and take a stab at it."

"You were hysterical. You were having a panic attack. You were chasing a dead man, for God's sake! I didn't know what else to do!"

"I was working it out!"

"You were--"

"Mutt," Marion's voice cut Indy off. She reentered the kitchen with a confused expression on her face, one she immediately shot towards her son. Lifting her hands from her lap, she offered Mutt a brown envelope she had retrieved from the porch.

"It's a little early for mail," Indy said.

"It didn't come through the post office," Marion replied. "Whoever sent it rang the doorbell, left it on the door mat, and high-tailed it out of here before I could even catch a glimpse of them."

The adrenaline collected so thickly in his bloodstream he could practically taste it. Mutt barely contained himself. He moved quickly to his mother's outstretched hand and took the envelope from her. Marion retreated without being asked, but he could tell by her body language that she didn't intend to go far.

The envelope bore his name, but it was written in a script he had never seen before. None of his friends could write in cursive as meticulously or elegantly as the sender had. _None of them would have done it with a calligraphy pen either_, he noted, scanning the fine lines of the letters for any other clues before tearing open the seal and pouring the contents into his hand.

The bright, white backs of photographs greeted his eyes. Mutt tossed the envelope on the table and brought the pictures close to his chest, hiding them from his parents' view, before flipping them over.

This time when the doorbell rang, Mutt didn't hear it. He didn't see his mother pat his father supportively on the shoulder, didn't watch her walk out to answer. He couldn't sense the curious expression working its way across his father's face and didn't bother to look up even as the elder man spoke his name. There was no world outside the black and white world of the pictures; no emotion, no thought, no breath. He was back in his black hole again, wide-eyed and speechless at what he found.

It was a slightly crowded frame, but the photographer had been talented enough to leave the background a blur of shadow, choosing to focus on a single individual. A man stood alone amidst the blackness. His face was turned away from the camera, focusing on something outside of the frame. Yet even from the profile, Mutt knew who the man in the picture was, and every inch of his body responded in kind. The fury that had once saturated his veins with fire chilled, and he shivered despite himself.

Fingers shaking, he peered at the second photograph in the envelope. The man was facing the camera this time, giving Mutt a perfect view of his face. It was a face that had only appeared in a handful of photographs, including one that, up until a week ago, had sat on the night table in Mutt's bedroom.

_Colin Williams_. The name burned like a flame in Mutt's mind. He took a deep breath and held it, staring madly at his stepfather's face in a search for answers. As far as he knew, mom had cornered the market on Colin photographs after his death, but these weren't like any he had seen before. All the pictures she had collected were from 1930s and prior. Colin's appearance seemed relatively the same in these photographs, yet these were unlike any pictures he had seen of his father before and were printed on new photo paper, no less. More importantly, Colin's pose and expression seemed familiar somehow, despite the fact that Mutt was certain he had never seen photos of his stepfather like these before.

_A camera flashed across the street…twice._

_Bishop's Park_, Mutt remembered, and the thought nearly took his breath away. _Somebody__must have seen him at Bishop's Park_.

His heart raced. A thousand thoughts passed through his mind at once. Someone hadn't just seen Colin at Bishop's Park**;** they had recognized him enough to take a photograph. More importantly, Mutt's breathing quickened as the realization dawned on him, hallucinations and ghosts didn't photograph. Colin Williams _had_ been in the park, though how or why, Mutt hadn't the faintest.

He opened his mouth to hail his parents, but was interrupted.

"Mutt."

He tore his gaze from the photos in surprise. Marion had returned to the kitchen, accompanied this time by a middle-aged gentleman Mutt had never seen before.

"Mutt," his mother gestured towards the stranger, "this is Dr. Everett."

Her sudden silence was deafening. Normally, she would have offered some kind of explanation, shown him some kind of credentials but not today, not for the good Dr. Everett. He didn't need an explanation or credentials, and the reason for it shook Mutt to the core. Either Everett was one of his many attending physicians – an unlikely possibility, since the young Jones knew for a fact only Jenks was on his case now – or his credentials were of a specialty no member of the family, least of all his mother, wanted to discuss.

Mutt tightened his grip on the pictures and cast a glance between his mother and father. They'd ambushed him twice now – once with the drugs the night before and now with a physician the morning after. _And not just any physician, _his lips pursed into a thin line and his hands balled themselves into fists. _This one isn't for the leg is it, mom?_

His eyes began to burn with fresh tears, but his rising anger managed to keep them at bay. "This day just keeps getting better and better," he said in a feeble attempt to loosen the mood if there ever was one. Mutt's fury ran deep. He would have taken on Indy in a boxing match right then and there if he'd had the chance. Shaking his limbs a little to free the tension, he glanced between his parents and demanded, as cockily as he could, "You gonna have me locked up in a padded cell, too?"

"He just wants to talk," Marion replied. Her voice had taken on that defeatist quality, the one that had made Mutt's insides crumble since he was a child. God Himself would have moved mountains if Marion had asked him in that voice.

But Mutt found his resolve was stronger now that all eyes were on him, especially the eyes of his Benedict Arnold parents. He turned his gaze to Everett. The doctor was built quite a bit like Indiana but with softer edges. He had the same fair, gray hair, the same blue eyes, and the same chin. He had similar sized shoulders, chest, arms, and legs. He even wore the same type of spectacles and suits as Dr. Henry Jones Jr. Everything about his appearance urged Mutt to trust him unconditionally. Here was the type of man he could tell his deepest secrets to, all his thoughts and fantasies. Here was a man who wouldn't slip him drugs in the midst of a panic attack or ambush him with a trip from a psychiatrist first thing in the morning.

_No,_ Mutt thought, _he'd just haul me off in a straight jacket and toss me in a padded cell instead. _

Everett gave a small wave. "Hi, Henry."

"It's Mutt."

"Alright – Mutt," the doctor corrected himself pleasantly. "Your mother was telling me you've had a rough couple of weeks."

"They don't seem to be getting much better," Mutt replied, glaring at his parents.

Everett smiled, an effort Mutt believed was to lighten the mood. The doctor took a step towards the table and set his briefcase down. Placing his hands on his hips, Everett's presence became much more approachable. He could have been another student in one of Mutt's classes or a teaching assistant with that demeanor. Mutt recognized a ploy when he saw one though. _You're going to have to work harder than that to get me to talk, Doc._

"Look, I'm not here to pass any judgment." Mutt suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the doctor's statement. If he wasn't here to pass judgment, what the hell was he here for? "I just wanna hear your side of things. Think you're up to a conversation?"

_Well, when you put it like that_,the edges of Mutt's mouth curved into a slight smirk. This guy was good, there were no doubts there. Anyone else would have been putty in his hands. The photographs clutched to Mutt's stomach were like a siren's song, though, one the younger man couldn't ignore. He had to get out of the kitchen. He had to figure out what his next move would be, because it sure as hell wouldn't be spilling his guts to a shrink.

"Yeah," he nodded, forcing his voice into the same defeatist tone as his mother had moments before. The ashamed looks on his parents' faces and the makings of a smile on Everett's told Mutt his façade was working for the time being. Picking up the envelope and drawing it and the photographs to his side, Mutt went in for the kill. "You uh…you mind if I go change, Doc? I just woke up."

"Not at all. Take your time." Everett smiled like a used car salesman. _I've got all day to figure out how crazy you are_.

Mutt turned back to the living room and headed for the stairs.

"Asshole…"

* * *

The second his door shut, Mutt gave himself over to the panic that had been building in the kitchen. He paced the length of the bedroom several times, running his hands frantically through his hair to get his thoughts moving productively.

_I could show them the pictures_, he thought to himself. That would certainly clear up some of the confusion over whether he was out of his mind or not. It would also be enough to send Everett on his merry way. _Two birds with one stone_, Mutt thought happily and headed for the door. _Done and…_

He stopped short, his hands hovering several inches from the door handle. "What the hell am I thinking?" he asked himself bitterly and whipped back around to resume pacing. The whole scene looked ridiculous in his mind's eye: _Mom, dad – I appreciate you calling a shrink and all, but Colin actually was in Bishop's Park, as proven by these photographs. True, he hasn't aged a day since the war, the location is pretty nondescript, and they were left by an anonymous donor who can't corroborate with my story at all, but he was totally there. So how 'bout we just forget about this whole psychiatrist thing and you let me get back to finding my stepdad – sound like a plan?_

Mutt rolled his eyes. "Yeah," he scoffed. "Like that'll fly." Colin hadn't aged a single day in the pictures. There were a number of other possible explanations, each one more plausible than the notion that long-dead Colin Williams had been perfectly restored to the land of the living. The prints could have come from old negatives. _But where the hell would someone have scored the negatives? It wasn't like Dad was front page news, least of all in the States. _He pressed his fingers into his temples. _And if they were old prints, why give them to me now? And why not wait around at the door for a thank you or an explanation or something?_

He came to a stop in the centre of the room. Someone could be messing with him. There wasn't a single student on Marshall Campus who hadn't heard the reason Mutt ran into traffic in the first place. Mutt didn't like that explanation either, though. Even if someone had found the old negatives and made prints, as a prank they reached a new low in adolescent mischief, and Mutt couldn't imagine someone being that cruel.

Sighing, Mutt dropped onto the bed and tried to channel his thoughts more productively. True, he could take the pictures to Mom and Pops, but what would that accomplish? His episode the night before had worried them past the point of no return. Pictures or no pictures, there would be no getting out of his meeting with Everett. Worse, any sign of evasion might be misconstrued as another bought with hysteria, forcing Mutt even further into psychiatric care.

Which left only one other option: find out who took the pictures.

Mutt thought hard, focusing hard on the memories of that day. Bishop's Park existed in his mind as it did in the photographs: nothing more than a mess of shape and colour. The camera flash was an autonomous light. It had a source only because logic dictated it must be so, but who that source was faded behind screaming crowds of children and the image of Colin Williams standing amongst them.

Grabbing the pictures, Mutt scanned them for any identifying marks. There were none. The photo paper was generic, plain white. _Which means these weren't processed at a drug store_, he took a deep breath. _It means they were done privately._

_But where?_

He paced again. Photo developing was a pretty big gig. You needed a dark room, the chemicals, the trays, the space..._ That rules out most homes_, Mutt thought. He walked back towards his bedroom window, willing his brain to work faster. Where else was film developed privately?

A single name emerged from his mouth: "Chloe." She had been a photography enthusiast ever since she realized pictures were an integral part of the journalistic process. If there was anyone available to tell him where the pictures were developed, it would be her.

Mutt grabbed a clean shirt out of the drawer and began tugging off his old one. First, he needed to get in touch with Chloe; then he would find out who took the pictures. _After I get down the stairs, of course… …and get my bike…and get out of the driveway…all without being seen or heard by the parentals or their psychiatrist. Ah, crap…_

He started pacing again, ignoring the pain building inside of his leg. God, he needed a way out! _Where the hell can I go? What the hell can I do? _He was an eighteen-year-old car accident victim with a bum leg; there wasn't anything he could do.

_Unless_… Mutt remembered the tree outside of his parents' bedroom window. The branch nearest the house had been large enough to support him if memory served him correctly, and he could climb out with using his injured leg. _So long as I don't fall off_, he cringed at the thought. His leg gave a painful throb in agreement.

"Better than nothing," Mutt decided, and shrugged on a clean shirt.

* * *

The second Everett had a cup of coffee placed in front of him Marion excused herself from the kitchen. She tried to tell herself it was just to go check on Mutt, but deep down she knew her sudden departure was more than that. The kitchen had shrunk several sizes the moment she introduced Everett to Mutt, and it was getting smaller by the second. With Indy entertaining the good doctor, she rushed to the foyer, bypassed the stairs, rounded the corner into Indy's study, and came to a sudden halt, her back pressed tightly against the wall. With the whole world out of sight and out of mind, Marion pressed her face into her hands and began to weep.

God, she wanted to scream! What was she doing to him? "He's not crazy," she insisted breathlessly. "My son is not crazy."

_But…_

"Oh Christ," Marion spat under her breath. She ran her hands across her face, furiously wiping away the tears. _What but? There are no 'buts' about it: my son is NOT crazy. _

Yet the anxiety lingered, and Marion was gripped with fear. Memories haunted her, half-forgotten fragments from what seemed like a lifetime ago. There she was, a newly widowed mother, alone in an unknown city, worlds away from everything she had come to know. Nevertheless, she found herself trailing after her son as he chased the ghost of his father wherever they happened to go. One day it was the park, the next it was the grocery store, the next in…God, Marion couldn't remember. She had all but forgotten about those experiences, dismissing them as the byproduct of Mutt's overactive imagination.

_Overactive imagination…_the thought should have come as a comfort to her, but it didn't. She knew now just as she had known that first day in the hospital that this was more than an overactive imagination to explain. Mutt had seen something that had shaken him to the very core and then some. _No, this isn't just his overactive imagination at work, _Marion told herself. _This is something bigger and far worse than anyone can imagine_.

_But what is it?_

She sighed. "I don't know," she whispered with a mournful shake of her head. Tears began to well in her eyes again. "I just don't know."

With that settled, Marion brushed away her tears. "I don't know, I don't know," she repeated. It was in no way a comforting mantra, but for some reason the very act of saying it aloud helped her focus. She took a deep breath and left the study.

Mutt's door was closed when she finally got up the stairs. _I'm the last person he'll want to see_, she though with a sigh. _Nothing less than I deserve, but still, he's my boy. I just want to know that he's alright, that we're getting through this. Is that so wrong of me? Is it?_

She stopped short in the hall and balled her hands into fists to release the growing tension in her body. _What have I done?_ Marion pressed a hand against the wall to steady herself. _What have I done to you?_

_Lied to him._

_Betrayed him._

_Okay, so I'm not mother of the stinking year! _she crossed her arms. _But I am his mother. And I am doing the right thing for him._

_…I think_.

Marion knocked on the door.

No answer.

"Mutt…" she knocked again. The silence emanating from inside her son's room was deafening. "Mutt…" her voice quieted, "Mutt, please just answer me. I know you're upset about this. Lord knows I'm not happy about it either. It's just…" words failed her. Marion swallowed the growing lump in her throat and pressed on with her explanation. "He just wants to talk. Please, Mutt, he just wants to talk."

Nothing. Not so much as a scoff in response. Marion half-expected her words to barb Mutt into saying something. It was unlike him to allow such a loaded statement to go without response. Marion pressed her ear against the door and listened hard. There didn't seem to be any sounds coming from her son's room at all.

"Mutt?" she knocked again. "Mutt? I'm coming in."

Marion expected the door to come to a sudden halt after a few inches, but it didn't. Instead, the door swung freely on its hinges, revealing an empty room beyond.

"INDY!"

* * *

Happy reading everybody!


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